


Song for Another Summer

by SEABlRD



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Fluff, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SEABlRD/pseuds/SEABlRD
Summary: ... The rules are passed down through the community across generations... Don’t step into mushroom rings, don’t take directions from strangers, don’t harm any tree or wildlife under fair folk protection, don’t eat or drink anything anyone else offers you, but most importantly: never give your name to the fae.-----Laurent is, like most children, captivated by the allure of mystery and magic. His best friend is a funny boy from the woods. This is their story, told in seasons.





	1. SPRING

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaa _it's here!!!_ and not for lack of complaining on my part rip
> 
> this is the first time i've participated in a Big Bang event and im immensely grateful that it was for Capri! shoutout to the amazing hardworking mods, as well as my two artists!! (whom we'll be seeing a little bit later ;3c) Also huge shoutout to @RavenZaphara for checking this over for me ik ive been super annoying haha
> 
> I hope you enjoy!! <3

You must never give your name to the fae. Nevermind that faeries and elves and other mythical beings have long since been proven fake, the rules are passed down through the community across generations. The fae cannot lie, but they will find other ways to deceive you and trap you. Don’t step into mushroom rings, don’t take directions from strangers, don’t harm any tree or wildlife under fair folk protection, don’t eat or drink anything anyone else offers you, but most importantly: never give your name to the fae.

Laurent, a boy of seven, knows the rules by heart. He doesn’t believe them, not by a long shot, but the idea of fantastical creatures living in the woods is thrilling to his imagination. Which is why he drags his older brother, Auguste, into the forest to explore.

“Lau, come on,” Auguste whines, not for the first time. “We all know those fairy tales aren’t real. Why are we out here?”

“Because it’s fun to think about!” Laurent grins brightly and grips Auguste’s hand in his tighter, swinging their hands between them. “And Papa doesn’t want me to play in the woods alone, so you have to come.”

“You shouldn’t be playing in the woods, anyway,” Auguste points out, swinging Laurent’s hand back.

Laurent ignores him and pulls him deeper into the woods, only letting go of his hand to climb over rocks and roots, until they reach a clearing wide enough to host Laurent’s imagination. He lets go of Auguste’s hand and runs around, picking up sticks and leaves. Auguste wanders off to the side while he gets to work building a small hut out of branches.

“Laurent, come on, let’s go home.” Auguste calls from across the clearing. Uncaringly, Laurent continues to build his hut. “It’s late, let’s go! Papa will be worried.”

“Just five more minutes!” Laurent calls back, spotting an exceptionally strong-looking branch to use as his support beam farther in the underbrush. He ignores his brother’s warning cries and disappears behind a tree trunk.

His hands wrap around the large branch and he hauls it over to his hut, walking backward with it to avoid tripping on it. He drops it on the ground and wipes his hands on his pants, when he realizes he can’t hear Auguste shouting anymore.

He looks up at the clearing, find it empty. As he takes in his surroundings, he realizes that he can’t hear anything else either. No birds, no wind, no insects buzzing in his ears.

“Auguste?” He calls, taking a few hesitant steps into the clearing. He turns around, looking behind him as though his brother might jump out from behind a tree. “Auguste, where are you?”

He can feel tears beginning to well in his eyes as he realizes that Auguste must have left him in the woods, when the crunching of leaves behind him startles him out of his misery. He jumps in fright and turns to the source of the sound.

A taller boy with dark skin and a mess of black curls peers at him from behind a tree trunk, his fingers stained with dirt, and leaves caught in his hair and on his outfit; a white cloth wrapped around his waist and draped over his shoulder, held together at his waist with a thin belt. His copper eyes flash as he watches Laurent warily.

“Who are you?” the boy asks, voice nearly lost in the vastness of the woods.

“I should be asking you you that!” Laurent says back, proud of himself for not stuttering in his nervousness.

“I’m not the intruder!” The boy frowns and steps out from behind the tree. He’s taller than Laurent by a few hands breadths, and he has to tilt his head down to look Laurent in the eye. “This is _my_ clearing. What are you doing here?”

“I’m just playing! The forest doesn’t have your name on it, does it?” Laurent demands, crossing his arms. The other boy sputters indignantly until he crosses his arms also, looking anywhere but at Laurent and shaking his head. “Then that means I’m allowed to play where I want.”

“Fine! But if you’re playing here, then I’m playing here too.”

Laurent takes in the boy’s messy appearance, considering him for a few minutes. His house would be built much faster if he had some help, he decides, then nods approvingly. “You’re bigger than me, so you can help me build my house.”

“You want me to help you build a house?” The boy asks, genuine surprise crossing his face. “Why?”

“Because you’re probably stronger than me, duh,” Laurent rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna play with me or not?”

The boy is silent for a bit, then breaks into a wide grin. “Sure, I’ll play with you! I’m Damen.” He holds out his hand with an earnest smile. “And your name?”

Laurent takes his hand and shakes it, like he’d seen Papa do when he meets people. “You’re not supposed to give your real name to the fae, dummy,” Laurent chastises. “You can call me Charls, though.”

“Is that so?” Damen’s grin widens. “Are you fae, then?”

“Yes! This clearing is my kingdom and I’m building my castle, because I’m king of the fae!” Laurent explains excitedly and points at the rather pitiful tangle of branches he’d been making. “I’m not a very good builder, though, so it’s just a house.”

Damen appraises the pile and nods. “Good thing I’m a better builder than you, then,” he laughs. He walks over to pull on one of the supporting branches and the entire frame falls apart, much to Laurent’s dismay.

“Hey! I worked hard on that!” he protests, stomping up to the taller boy and snatches the branch out of his hand. “You’re supposed to be helping me!”

“I’m gonna make you a better one!” Damen grabs the branch back and plops to the ground, crossing his legs, and he starts making a layout with the other branches. “It’ll be big enough that you’ll be able to fit your whole family in it, and all your advisers too, since you’re a king.”

Laurent watches him work, begrudgingly admitting to himself that Damen seems to know what he’s doing. “Fine,” he says, crouching beside the slowly forming structure and watching Damen with a critical eye. “If you can make me a better house, I’ll let you rule with me.”

“I don’t wanna be a queen,” Damen’s face screws up in displeasure, and Laurent laughs at his expression.

“There can be two kings, dummy!”

“Really?” Damen looks up at him, eyes like sparks. “Can there be two kings, like a king and queen, too?”

“Uh-huh,” Laurent confirms, nodding. “My brother said sometimes boys can like boys, and girls can like girls, so it’s okay.”

“Your brother sounds very smart.”

“He is,” Laurent looks around the clearing again, remembering why he was here in the first place. “I should go home and find him so he won’t be worried.”

Damen gets up and wipes his bottom of dirt. “Can’t you stay for a bit longer? We just started!”

Laurent bites his lip and frowns, torn between wanting to keep playing and not wanting to make his brother worried or, worse, angry. In the end pleasing his brother wins out, and he shakes his head.

“Gotta go home now.” He announces, and walks determinedly in the direction he and Auguste came from.

“Are you going to the human town?” Damen asks as he falls into step beside him, the white cloth around him flipping up every time he jumps over a rock or root. Laurent is polite enough not to look. “I can walk you!”

Laurent squints at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do you trust me to take you in the right direction? I could be a pixie, you know.”

“I don’t think you are,” Damen chuckles, patting Laurent’s head. “Pixies are a lot louder.”

They make their way through the woods as the sun sets until Laurent can see the lights from town through the trees. There are a lot of people in the woods, Laurent notices. Are they playing too?

“Thank you for walking with me,” Laurent says, knocking his hand against Damen’s. “Do you wanna come join us for supper?”

“No thanks! I have to head home too,” Damen shrugs, smiling apologetically. “But it was nice meeting you! Charls,” he adds with a wink.

“Okay. Bye Damen!” Laurent skips forward, leaving Damen behind. He turns around at the last second to call back, “I like your costume!”

“I like yours too!” is the reply he gets from the darkening woods. Damen is nowhere to be seen. Confused, Laurent continues toward the lights on his own. As he approaches, he spots his brother holding his cellphone up like a flashlight, moving it in wide sweeps over the tree trunks. Laurent puts his hand up and shouts his name.

“Auguste!” he cries, running forward. Auguste stops and looks at him, stunned, before tripping over his own feet running toward him too. Auguste falls to his knees as he reaches him and runs his hands over him frantically, then pulls Laurent into a tight hug, drawing in deep gasping breaths.

“Laurent,” he wheezes, pressing his face into Laurent’s golden hair. “Laurent!”

“What’s the matter?” Laurent asks, wriggling in his brother’s arms. As if doused in cold water, Auguste jolts and fumbles with his phone, hitting speed dial. Laurent watches as the device rings once, and then a familiar voice picks up on the other end.

“Auguste?” Papa’s voice sounds thin and fragile.

“I’ve found him!” Auguste announces, and Papa begins to sob. Laurent manages to pull himself out of his brother’s embrace for long enough to give him a furious glare.

“What’s wrong, Auguste?” He demands, and Auguste looks at him as though he’s grown a second head.

“You were missing for three days!” Auguste tells him, grasping Laurent’s shoulders with both hands, his phone forgotten on the ground. “Laurent, I looked everywhere for you! I was watching you in the clearing- I blinked and you were gone! Where did you go? Are you okay?!”

“You left me alone!” Laurent accuses. “I was just playing and then you were gone!”

A few other people, likely also searching for him, approach as they realize Auguste has him. A few of them exchange glances, knowing, scared.

“Did you see anyone?” One of the lady asks, kneeling beside them. Her fluffy red hair falls into her eyes and he pushes it behind her ear, revealing two green, catlike eyes. Laurent never saw her before and warily leans into Auguste, away from her, but nods truthfully.

“There was another boy,” he tells her. “We were building a house.”

“You didn’t give him your name, did you?” Auguste looks hard at him. Laurent shakes his head, proud to have remembered the rule.

“Nope, and I told him he shouldn’t give me his name either because I’m king of the fae!”

Auguste looks at the woman, and the two of them frown. The teen gets to his feet, picking Laurent up like a baby and retrieves his phone from the underbrush. “Let’s go home, okay?” He says, while the lady tells the other people that the search is over. Laurent is close enough to tell that he’s shaking. “Papa was so worried, he’ll be so happy you’re okay.”

“Okay,” Laurent mutters against Auguste’s shirt, clinging to his arm, but as Auguste carries him away Laurent’s eyes are drawn to the woods.

Papa is not happy with him when they return home. He’s waiting on the porch of their house, the one at the far end of the cul-de-sac–Laurent always thought it was nice to be apart from the neighbors, they’re so _loud_. When they’re close enough Papa grabs Laurent out of Auguste’s arms and crushes him in a hug, berating him for having ran away for three days.

“Do you have any idea how worried we were?!” He shouts, dried tear tracks running down his face. It makes it very hard for Laurent to feel annoyed at being yelled at. He carries Laurent toward his bedroom, scolding him the entire time. “We spent every day running around in the woods looking for you. Auguste took days off of school to go looking for you!”

“I’m sorry Papa,” Laurent says, not understanding. Why does everybody insist he’d been gone for days, when surely he was only playing in the forest for a few hours? “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“You’re right, you won’t, because you’re not allowed to go back in the forest again.” Papa says, final. He puts Laurent down on his bed, unchanged from his clothes still covered in dirt and twigs. The crease in his brow smooths until he’s only tired, and he rubs his calloused hand over Laurent’s hair softly. “Get some sleep, Lolo, you must be exhausted. We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

Laurent tries to protest, but Papa closes the lights and slowly shuts the door. From the hallway, Auguste watches him worriedly until the door blocks them. Laurent crawls off his bed and tiptoes to the door and opens it a crack, looking down the hall to where Auguste and Papa are whispering to each other urgently.

He lets the door fall shut again and leans his head against the wood. Everyone seems so upset with him, and despite the fact that he doesn’t feel he’s done anything wrong, Laurent is consumed with guilt. He promises to himself that he won’t go back to the woods ever again, even if it means he’ll never get to see his house finished.

Carefully, not to make noise, Laurent takes his pyjamas out of the dresser and changes into them, leaving his dirty clothes on the floor, and climbs back into bed. Illuminated only by his small pony-shaped night light, he falls asleep.

* * *

The thing about promises made by children is that, sometimes, they are broken or forgotten, thought not out of any sense of malice. Time passes, and the solemnity of the promise is eventually lost.

It’s the sight of bluebells, a dense covering that makes a perfect path leading into the woods, that catches Laurent’s eye as he walks home from school. His last class had let out early because the teacher had a personal emergency at home, and the children were encouraged to stay in the gym to wait for the bus, or to walk home if they didn’t live far.

Laurent is a big boy, now, everybody says so. Which is why he decided that he’s old enough to walk home on his own. Naturally, the quickest way home is past the forest.

This is where he and Damen parted ways, he remembers. The path of bluebells ripples in the wind, a river of blooms. If he listens closely, Laurent almost thinks he might hear them chiming like real bells. Unconsciously, he takes a step forward, onto the road of blue.

The bluebells take him deeper into the forest, until they spill into the clearing from so many days ago, the path tapering off toward the center. On the far side, a foreign structure catches his eye.

There, where Damen said he would build it, is the promised house. Branches are tightly woven together like a basket with leaves poking out between them, forming four solid walls. The corners of the house are made of thick and sturdy branches, Laurent notes as he approaches, driven deep into the ground as though grown straight up from the dirt. The roof is a triangular-shaped thatch of long grasses and reeds, the front and back of it left open to let sunlight stream in from the sides.

Distracted, Laurent doesn’t notice when someone emerges from the doorless house and waves at him. His white cloth is draped over both his shoulders, today, making the garment look more like a dress.

“Charls!” he greets, cheerful. Laurent jumps, then frowns at him in disapproval.

“Don’t scare me like that!” he puts his hands on his hips. “It’s rude.”

Damen nods and looks properly regretful. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing a light furrow into the dirt with his foot, which Laurent sees is bare. “But look, I finished the house! Now you can be king with me!”

With that, Damen ducks back into the house and reemerges holding two halos of leaves, carefully woven from golden ferns. He holds one out to Laurent, who ducks his head a little to let Damen put it on him. The second one, Damen gives to Laurent. He holds the crown gently, afraid to break it apart while Damen bows as well, and he puts it on top of the dark curls.

“There, now we’re kings, and we have our own house!” Damen declares, taking Laurent’s hand and pulling him into the house. Inside is spacious, more so than Laurent would have expected, and in the center is a large, flat tree stump he doesn’t recall being there last time. It provides a good table-like surface.

“It’s okay,” he says, taking it in. Damen frowns at the evaluation, looking at his handiwork with a critical gaze.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks.

Laurent says nothing for a few minutes, watching Damen out of the corner of his eye with amusement. The longer the silence draws out, the more uncomfortable the other boy looks. Having mercy, Laurent uncrosses his arms and lets them swing at his sides gently.

“There’s no decoration.” He states. “Houses are supposed to have decorations, so that people know it belongs to you, and that way it becomes a home,” he emphasizes the last word, and Damen turns to him with his head tilted like a puppy.

“You want this to be our home?”

Laurent nods, and hastily exits the house. He rushes around the clearing, picking up smooth stones and pinecones, discarding the ones he doesn’t like. Damen follows behind him, picking some nice looking rocks of his own.

Stopping in front of the house, Laurent puts his items on the ground and spreads them out. Damen does the same, and Laurent can’t help but scrunch up his nose at the rather ugly rocks Damen picked.

“Our home has to look pretty, we can’t have rocks with sharp edges,” he says, picking up the sharper ones and tossing them somewhere behind him. “Do you think we can have flowers?”

“They won’t last long if you cut them, and we don’t have a pot to put them in so they can grow,” Damen points out. In response, Laurent shrugs the backpack off his shoulders and opens it, reaching inside and pulling out a gilded jar. Finger-drawn designs cover its four flat sides, framed by swirling lines of raised paint. It was meant to be a project for art class, but he thinks it deserves a nobler purpose now.

Damen’s eyes flash bronze with his smile, and he takes the jar delicately before running to the other side of the clearing, gently digging something up. Laurent lets him go, and continues to sort through the stuff he’d picked up.

He settles on two fully opened pinecones, a smooth red rock, and an empty snail shell that has a hole in it. He reaches into his backpack again and pulls out a yard of twine, which he’d been meaning to wrap around the jar with glue, and instead uses it to string up the pinecones on either side of the shell to make a small garland.

He takes it into the house and hangs it on the far wall, brows furrowing as he considers the placement, then takes it town and moves it to another wall. He finishes tying a handful of clumsy knots around a thin branch to make sure the garland doesn’t move when Damen returns, the jar full of dirt, and inside are a handful of bluebell plants. The flowers ring slightly when they knock together.

“I got you these,” he says, holding the jar out to Laurent, who takes it reverently. “They’re blue, like your eyes.”

“You planted them properly?” Laurent asks, just to make sure. He puts the jar on the table, where a beam of sunlight comes in through the roof.

“Of course! I planted the other ones, too,” Damen points behind him at the road of flowers. “I didn’t see you for a long time and I was worried you got lost, so I made you a path. Like this, you’ll always be able to find your way back to here!”

“Really?” Laurent’s eyes widen. Damen had planted all those flowers in a week? For him?

“Uh-huh,” Damen nods, and then sits cross-legged on the ground beside the stump table. “And that way I’ll always know when you’re here, because I can hear the bells ringing!”

“That’s a very fae-like thing to say,” Laurent hums approvingly, sitting beside Damen. His crown slips forward a bit, and Damen adjusts it for him.

Laurent grabs a granola bar from his backpack and opens it, biting into the chocolate chip snack happily. He munches on it in silence, and Damen leans into him, bumping his shoulder against Laurent’s.

“Can I have some?” Damen asks, and Laurent shakes his head. He swallows his mouthful before answering.

“You can’t eat anything the fae gives you, even if you ask for it,” Laurent lectures. “If you do that, the fae will trap you and you’ll never be able to leave! Next time, bring your own snacks.”

Damen sits back and pouts, watching Laurent eat his bar. In the meantime, he looks around the house and spots Laurent’s garland.

“That looks nice,” he points at it. “Are you gonna put more decorations, or is that it?”

“More,” Laurent says through his last mouthful.

“Okay. Can I help?” Damen seems excited at the idea. Laurent shakes his head again, and Damen frowns. “Why not?”

“It’s my house.”

“I built it! Plus, I’m king too, so I get to have a say in what our house looks like.”

Laurent pats his arm, a little condescending. “Your decorations are ugly,” he states, and leaves it at that. Damen squints at him in displeasure, his mouth stretching into a deep frown. Laurent laughs at him.

“Maybe,” Damen looks at the far wall, “I could put a window. Right there,” he makes a square shape in the air with his fingers. “So that we can see outside, and it won’t be as dark.”

“I think I’d like that,” Laurent replies, folding up the wrapper of his granola bar and tucking it into his pocket. He zips up his backpack and slings it over his shoulders once more. “But not right now. I should go home, before people think I’m lost again.”

Damen helps him up, careful not to knock over the jar of flowers, and they brush the dust off their clothes together. Laurent takes off his fern crown and puts it on the stump, making sure not to crush the leaves.

“But you’ll never get lost, now,” Damen points out, following Laurent out of the house. “Just follow the bells!”

Laurent nods, and offers Damen his hand. “Are you gonna walk with me again?” he asks. Damen brightens like a lightbulb and takes Laurent’s hand, and they swing their arms together as they walk. The bluebells bend under their feet as they walk, but whenever Laurent looks backward none of them are broken or crushed.

> [by Killu93](http://killu93.tumblr.com/post/180764646229)

Damen leaves him at the same place as before, stopping just within the edge of the forest. His shoulders slump and he looks at the ground, fiddling with the hem of his dress with his free hand. His crown slips a little, and Laurent would be tempted to fix it for him if he weren’t so short.

“Are you gonna leave for a long time, again?” Damen asks, looking at Laurent through his lashes. Laurent wants to tease him by saying he’ll never return, but the honesty of the other boy makes it difficult to antagonize him.

“I’ll try to come back as soon as I can,” Laurent says instead. “You’ll know I’m coming if you listen for the bells, right?”

Damen’s smile lights up again, threatening to blind Laurent with his cheer. He nods, letting go of Laurent’s hand, and Laurent continues the rest of the way on his own. Just like last time, when Laurent turns back, Damen is gone.

The moment his feet hit the pavement, he hears somebody calling his name. He looks down the street to where Auguste is approaching on his bicycle. Auguste swings a leg over the seat and runs beside the bike as it comes to a stop.

“Laurent! Where were you?” He demands, out of breath. His own backpack is still on his shoulders, and Laurent knows he must have gone looking for him as soon as school let out for him.

“I just went to look at my house,” Laurent offers, pointing at the trail of bluebells leading into the woods. When he looks back at Auguste, his brother’s face is troubled and sad. “The boy from last time finished building it for me! We just decorated it a bit, and then I came home.”

“Okay,” Auguste says, then takes Laurent’s hand. It’s the same one Damen was holding, and Laurent can’t help but notice that Auguste’s palm is not as warm. “Let’s go home for supper, I don’t want Papa to be mad again.”

At home, Laurent enthusiastically tells Papa all about his new friend over a plate of hot dogs and waffle fries. Papa has the same look on his face as Auguste did, when Laurent tells him about the pathway of bluebells. Even though they’re both less than elated at the tale, Laurent is happy to tell them about it. He has very few friends at school.

“I think he lives on the other side of the woods,” he speculates out loud, and Auguste nods vigorously, shooting a purposeful glance at Papa.

“That’s right, Lolo,” Papa says. “Your friend must live on the other side of the woods, so you shouldn’t try to find him again, or you might get lost.”

“But the bluebells-”

“Only go to the clearing,” Auguste interrupts. “You don’t have directions to your friend’s house. It’s not safe to go where you don’t know the way, Laurent.”

Laurent nods understandingly. It’s a reasonable enough statement that he doesn’t question it. He should not go where he doesn’t know. It’s just common sense, right?

When Laurent goes to bed, he leaves the door open a crack. The pony night light flickers a little, and down the hall Auguste and Papa are arguing in hushed voices.

* * *

Laurent disappears into the woods often enough that Auguste begins to wait for him at the end of the bluebells. Auguste tells him that, sometimes, he’s gone for days! Surely he must be pulling Laurent’s leg, because there’s no way he spends that much time in the woods. Laurent is a smart boy, he would _know_ if he’d been in the woods for days! He would have had to sleep, after all, so Auguste must be trying to play a trick on him, as most brothers are said to do. Laurent doesn’t mind too much.

Despite getting in trouble for ‘disappearing’ into the woods so much, Laurent believes that his time is worth it. After weeks of visiting Damen in the woods and working on decorating their house, their hard work is paying off.

Damen managed to expand the house a little, making enough space for two windows. The stump table is cluttered with fat leaves that serve as ‘plates’, various twigs for ‘utensils’, a candlestick made of curled birch bark and a bit of twine, and the bluebell jar. Laurent had used up the rest of the twine making more garlands and stringing them up both inside and outside the house, making it quite well decorated indeed.

The two boys are sitting at the table, eating the snacks they’d brought. Laurent has a granola bar, as it’s easier to carry with him, and Damen has a handful of berries that he _swears_ he picked himself, in the forest.

“But Papa says not to eat the berries in the forest!” Laurent shouts again, hitting his little fist against the table angrily, the way he’s seen Papa do sometimes. The impact hurts him and he shakes his hand out, frowning.

“Why not? They’re good!” Damen counters, pointedly shoving three more berries into his mouth at a time.

“No! Spit it out! They’re poison!” Laurent leans over across the stump and grabs Damen’s face with both hands, squishing his cheeks and making him purse his lips like a fish. He wiggles out of Laurent’s hands and swallows his mouthful cheekily, making an exaggerated gulping noise as he does, much to Laurent’s horror.

“Maybe your Papa just doesn’t want you to eat the dirty forest berries,” Damen shrugs, already reaching for more while Laurent is still frozen in stupor. “You might be more delicate, but I’m used to them.”

“Delicate!” It knocks Laurent out of his shock, and the boy turns his back to Damen furiously, crossing his arms. “I’m not delicate! I’m a big boy!”

Damen chews his berries and leans around him to look at his face. “Really? Because you act like a baby,” he teases, and Laurent’s hand weakly hits him on his bare shoulder.

“I’m a big boy! Plus it’s my birthday, so you _have_ to be nice to me.” Laurent tells him. “I want berries, so you have to give them to me.”

“Your birthday?” Damen blinks, confused, and the expression is so outlandish on his face that Laurent can’t help but laugh.

“Yes! I’m one year older today!” Laurent says, uncrossing his arms so he can twist back and face Damen. The other boy sits back down as well, arranging his white cloth around himself as he settles.

“Okay. How old are you now, then?”

“How old are you?” Laurent asks back, remembering what Auguste always told him. Never give anyone your age unless you know they’re your age too! There are people in the world who are not nice.

Damen takes longer than Laurent expects to think on the answer. “In human years? Eleven!” Damen states. “And you?”

Laurent laughs at the way Damen answers, so in-character for their game. He figures three years isn’t a very large difference in age, so he replies. “In human years? Eight.” Laurent mimics him, causing Damen to grin.

“So you were seven when we met? That’s a lucky number!” Damen nods, as if the statement makes perfect sense to him. Laurent tilts his head questioningly, like a puppy.

“Is it?” He asks.

“Mm-hm,” Damen nods, enthusiastic. “Seven is a very lucky number! Like three, and nine! That means you were lucky to meet me when you did, otherwise you would have met me when you were eight, and that wouldn’t be ‘specially lucky.”

“Or I might not have met you at all,” Laurent points out, and Damen looks sad at the very thought.

“But who else would you build your home with?” Damen asks, resting his chin in his hands. Laurent shrugs and shakes his head.

“No one, I guess,” he replies. “I don’t have lots of friends.”

“I’ll be your _best_ friend, then,” the older boy declares, and Laurent can’t describe the look Damen has in his eye. He points at the two fern crowns on their heads. “And I’ll be your king. And you’ll be my king, too!”

“Okay,” Laurent says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and Damen matches him with a broad grin. He leans up against the stump table, the berries catching his attention again. They do look quite good. Surely his _best_ friend would let him have at least one.

He reaches out to grab a berry when Damen’s hand flashes out and smacks his, the impact making a loud noise that scares Laurent more than it hurts him. Still, Laurent pulls his hand back into himself and he looks at the older boy with wide, terrified eyes.

“Why’d you do that?!” he demands, tears welling before he can stop them. Damen frowns and tries to reach out soothingly, but Laurent leans away.

“Charls, I’m sorry,” Damen says, looking on the verge of crying, himself. “You can’t eat fae food!”

Anger takes him and Laurent gets up abruptly, almost knocking over the bluebell jar. Damen catches it at the last second, the bells chime in dissonance. Damen tries to reach for Laurent again but the younger boy twists just out of his reach.

“I don’t want to play anymore,” Laurent says, taking his fern crown off and tossing it onto the table carelessly, leaving the house and Damen behind. He ignores Damen’s pleas and marches down the bluebell path, the sound of the ringing loud and jarring in his ears, where usually they’re soft.

Auguste is waiting for him at the end of the path with a small, wrapped rectangle in his hands. He waves at Laurent, his cheerful smile changing to a look of confusion when he catches on to his brother’s mood.

“Laurent, are you okay?” Auguste asks, taking Laurent’s hand in his. “Did something happen? Are you hurt?”

Laurent shakes his head and squeezes his brother’s hand tightly. “I wanna go home,” he mumbles, and Auguste picks him up. The corner of the gift digs into Laurent’s side, but he doesn’t complain.

“Okay, let’s go home then.” Auguste says. “Papa bought you a nice vanilla cake with sprinkles, just like you like, and you can open your present after having a slice.”

Laurent nods against Auguste’s shoulder, the echo of the bluebells still haunting his ears. “Can we have cake before supper?” he asks, mood already picking up. Auguste laughs, but assures him that they sure can.

It’s much darker out than Laurent thought it would be, and the lights are all on inside by the time Auguste pushes open the front door. Papa’s head pokes into the hallway, and the relief on his face is palpable when he sees Laurent in his arms.

“Welcome home, boys!” Papa says with awkward casualness. “Hungry for some supper?”

“Cake!” announces Laurent, who nearly topples Auguste over when he flings his arms wide. “We want cake!”

“Alright, down you go,” Auguste groans and slowly sets Laurent down. “You’re getting a little bit too big for that, buddy.”

Papa comes out of the kitchen, wearing his funny apron that he knows always makes Laurent laugh. “What’s this about cake, I hear? Do we have cake? Is it someone’s birthday today?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Laurent practically vibrates where he stands, beaming at Papa. “Me! It’s my birthday!”

“Is that right?” Papa puts his hands under Laurent’s armpits and pretends to lift him, wheezing with the effort. “Wow! You’re so big, now, I can’t even pick you up!”

“Auguste picked me up,” Laurent says, not particularly appreciating being called ‘big’ now. “I’m still _light_ , Papa, I’m not _that_ big!”

“You must be eating rocks in the woods, then!” Papa jokes, but out of the corner of his eye Laurent can see Auguste making a shushing motion. Just to be purposefully bratty, Laurent replies snidely.

“Actually, I don’t,” he says, the incident in the house coming back to the front of his memory and his annoyance returns with a vengence. “My friend doesn’t let me eat _anything_ except my own snacks.”

Papa and Auguste perk up at this, seeming surprised. “No?” Auguste says, a slight frown on his face. “Nothing to eat or drink?”

Laurent shakes his head. “It’s because of the game, and we’re kings of the fae, but we’re still not allowed to eat each other’s snacks. He’s kinda mean about it, though.”

“I think that’s good,” Papa says, too quickly. “That he’s playing along so well, I mean. That means he’s good at the game, right?”

“I guess,” Laurent says, unconvinced.

Auguste ushers the two of them to the table and brings out the cake, revealing a pristine flat surface dotted with rainbow sprinkles. ‘Happy Birthday Laurent!’ is written across the top in curled blue icing.

“Tada!” Auguste says, gesturing to the cake with a flourish. He plants a candle shaped like the number eight into one corner and lights it. “Make a wish!”

As Auguste and Papa sing ‘Happy Birthday’, Laurent thinks hard about his wish. He remembers Damen’s sad face when he walked out on him, earlier, wondering if the other boy got home alright. If he’s mad at Laurent. He really shouldn’t have been so harsh with Damen, he was only playing the game.

He wishes Damen doesn’t hate him, and quickly blows out his candle just as Papa and Auguste finish their song. They cheer for him and cut the cake, putting the slices on colourful paper plates along with bright blue plastic forks.

“Bon appétit!” Papa says, and the three of them dig into their cake. The sprinkles crunch when Laurent chews them. Papa smiles at him cheerfully and swallows his mouthful of cake before asking: “So how was your day, Lolo? You had a good time with your friend?”

“We got in a fight,” Laurent says, and Papa and Auguste share a worried glance. “I left him in our house because I was mad at him.”

“That sucks,” Auguste pats Laurent’s shoulder. “Hopefully he won’t be too mad at you for that.”

“I hope not, too.” Laurent nods and takes another bite of cake. “But he’s nice. I don’t think he’ll be too mad.”

Over his head, Auguste gives Papa a very specific look, and Papa nods back.

“Lau, do you wanna open your present now?” Auguste asks offhandedly, pulling the wrapped rectangle out from under the table. Not wanting to seem greedy, Laurent simply nods, but the excited tremble running through his whole body gives him away.

The gift is put on the table beside his plate of cake, and he tears the paper off politely, slowly, until the cover of the large book is revealed. _‘Faerie, Magic, and Protection’_ the title reads, and Laurent almost bounces himself out of his seat.

“It’s perfect!” he smiles bright and earnest, and Auguste seems pleased that he likes it. “Now I can play even better!”

“That’s all we want,” Papa says, taking another bite of cake.

* * *

Laurent doesn’t return to the woods for the rest of the week, too busy delving into the pages of his new book. He reads with fascination about the faekind, the nice ones and the malicious ones, absorbing the paragraphs of information and warning alike.

He likes the unicorns most, he decides with a glance at his faded pony-shaped night light. Horned horse-like beasts that grant wishes and protect the innocent. A noble, fierce creature that allows only the purest to touch it and, if one has the beast’s favor, to ride it.

He pours each night over the book underneath his covers, holding a flashlight above the pages to read the words until they blur together and his eyes fall closed. His excitement for the mythology would be endearing, if the community weren’t so superstitious, but Auguste and Papa encourage him to keep reading anyway.

The book details fae rituals and the kinds of magic they have, and Laurent runs his fingers over the illustrations of delicate-looking wings and long, curved horns. The book calls them deceivers and tricksters, despite describing them as being unable to lie. Laurent skims that chapter, not understanding how one can deceive without lying.

The next chapter catches his eye; a passage about the mating habits of the fae. Territory is important to the fae, the book tells him, and most fae will settle permanently. Like lions, when fae reach maturity many separate from their parent court to form their own. They mate for life, and where they settle becomes the territory for their new court.

Laurent thinks of the little wooden house in the forest and is pleased that, even without knowing, he’d done exactly as a real fae king would do. Though the thought of his playmate, abandoned in their house in a moment of anger, sobers his joy.

He hopes Damen will forgive him for being rude. Really, the older boy was just playing along with the game that Laurent began.

He looks at the clock on his dresser, the glowing green numbers announcing it’s ten at night, and considers. Papa and Auguste are asleep now, Laurent is sure, and there wouldn’t be any cars on the road that might hit him. He gathers his book and a flashlight and slowly shuffles the window up, pushing the screen open until it gives him enough space to crawl through.

Leaning out the window slightly, Laurent tries to asses the distance to the ground below. Despite the house being only one level, the drop is quite big for Laurent’s little body, but he thinks he could probably make it. He throws the flashlight out first, and it bounces on the lawn with a dull noise. Next goes the book, which thankfully lands with both covers closed. After that follows Laurent, one leg hanging while the other presses against the brick of the house in an attempt to lower himself more gently.

He lands on the lawn barefoot, stumbling backward. He hits the ground with a little squeak, more out of surprise than pain, and shakes his head to clear the spots from his eyes. He checks, briefly, to make sure that nobody heard him, and then grabs his book and flashlight. He tucks the book under his arm and holds the flashlight in front of him like a sword, flicking it on, and walking into the ray it illuminates.

The backyard is mostly bare except for the large plot of upturned earth on the far side, where Papa always says he’ll plant a garden, except he never does. He’s too busy, he says. The yard itself is enclosed by a nice wrought-iron fence that Papa says was very expensive, so Laurent isn’t allowed to hang stuff on it anymore.

He pushes the fence gate open slowly, mindful of the metallic whining it produces, and heads into the forest, mindful of his bare feet. The underbrush is soft, cushioning him from most harm, but every so often he puts his foot on a rock or a broken twig that makes him jump from the bite. Not having the bluebell path throws him off, and he finds himself wandering in circles.

“Hello?” Laurent’s voice is small amidst the tree trunks. One of the hollowed logs seems familiar, but he can’t be sure. “Is anyone there?” He says, a little louder. The call of a bird scares him into silence again, and he presses on.

The house can’t be so far, he resolves, and turns around the side of a particularly wide tree, coming into an empty hollow among a cluster of white birch trees. He leans against one, switching his heavy book to his less tired arm.

He feels something beside him, as though a person were standing with him. He turns to look, but finds no one there. Unnerved, Laurent takes a deep breath and makes to walk forward again, when he’s yanked back by the collar of his pyjama shirt. His body follows the movement with a choked scream, and a hand comes over his mouth to muffle him.

“Shh, it’s me!” Damen’s familiar voice is whispered into Laurent’s ear, and he sags in relief. He gently extracts himself from the older boy’s grasp and brushes himself off, taking note of Damen’s haggard appearance. His white cloth is haphazardly tied, and his belt is loose. Twigs stick out of his curls like a bird’s nest.

“You scared me!” Laurent accuses, and hands off his book to Damen with no explanation. Damen, trusting as he is, takes the book with no argument.

“I’m sorry, I had to stop you from stepping on the ring.” Damen says in way of explanation, and he points at Laurent’s feet.

Well, what’s beside Laurent’s feet, anyway. In the grass, almost hidden, is a thin line of small, penny-sized mushrooms. The line goes in a wide curve around the entire empty space between the birch trees, forming a ring about the size of a small pool.

“Is that a faerie ring?” Laurent asks, pointing his flashlight at the fungi. “I read about those! If you step in them you get trapped in the fae realm, like a prison!”

Damen makes a little shug with one shoulder. “Sort of,” he says. “It’s a gravesite, really, and the ring is like a tombstone.”

Laurent looks at him for a long time and then scrunches his nose. “A grave? For what?”

The older boy grins teasingly. “Special trees, mostly,” he says. “But sometimes they’re for little boy who shouldn’t be in the woods at night.”

“You’re one to talk!” Laurent gasps. “How did you find me, anyway? I didn’t even hear you coming.”

“You were making a lot of noise, it wasn’t hard to track you down,” Damen says, and takes Laurent’s hand with his own. “Come on, before you disturb the circle.”

He leads Laurent through the trees with confidence, and eventually they break through the bushes into their clearing. Excitedly, Laurent takes the lead and drags Damen into their house, and Damen puts his book on the stump table.

“I can’t believe we saw a faerie ring!” Laurent says, nearly bouncing in excitement. “Good thing you stopped me, I almost stepped in it, and then I would’ve been trapped!”

“It’s against fae law,” Damen nods in agreement. “Stepping on, or otherwise disturbing a ring is punishable by imprisonment.”

Laurent moves to open his book, but stops abruptly when he remembers what he came here for to begin with. “I have to apologize to you!” He exclaims, and Damen looks at him in surprise.

“For what?” Damen asks.

“For getting mad at you, last week,” Laurent explains, his hands coming down to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have gotten mad and left you alone, and I’m sorry. You were just playing, and I was rude.”

Damen looks at him for a very long time before answering with an apology of his own. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “For hitting you. I didn’t think, really, I just saw you grabbing some berries and panicked.”

They contemplate each other for a few seconds, until Laurent’s solemn expression is broken by a stifled giggle. Unable to help himself, Damen begins to laugh as well. They sink to the ground beside the table together in their fit of mirth.

“We were pretty dumb,” Damen declares, and Laurent can only nod in agreement.

“No more getting mad,” Laurent says, laying his cheek against his book on the table. The hardcover is a little cold against is skin. “And no more hitting, okay?”

Damen nods. “That sounds fair,” he replies. “I don’t want to hurt you, anyway.”

They sit together drowsily, hushed small-talk shared between them to catch each other up on the happenings of the week. Laurent tells Damen about his new book, showing some of the pictures in it. He emphasizes his interest in the unicorns, asking Damen if he’d seen any while he played in the woods.

“I think I’ve seen a few,” Damen says, rubbing his head, thoughtful. “But I can’t be sure. Unicorns like to hide themselves so that unworthy people don’t see them.”

“We should go looking for one,” Laurent suggests. “Tomorrow, after I come back from school.”

Damen seems startled for a moment, then looks at Laurent with wide eyes, glowing like embers in the darkness. “Charls, you should be at home! It’s too late for you to be out here,” he whisper-shouts, scrambling to his feet and picking Laurent up by his underarms. He puts Laurent down on his own feet with a huff, then frowns at his lack of shoes as well.

“You’re no fun, Auguste and Papa don’t even know I’m here. I won’t get in trouble if they don’t know.”

“No point in taking that risk,” Damen shakes his head, and leads Laurent out of their little house by the hand. “What direction is your home?”

Laurent points with the flashlight, toward the bluebell path and then left. Damen nods and solemnly escorts Laurent home. They kick the bluebells gently as they walk, the faint ringing between their toes causing them to giggle madly.

“I wish I was allowed to live with you in the woods,” Laurent says. “I wouldn’t have to go to school, and we could play in our house all day.”

Damen looks down at him with a strange look, his eyes bronze in the low light. “I wish you could stay here, too, but it isn’t safe.” He rubs the back of Laurent’s hand with his thumb. “Staying with your brother and your dad is good, and school is important to humans.”

Laurent scrunches up his nose. “But school is boring, and we never learn about stuff I like. It’s just languages, and math. I’m already good at both, so why should I have to go?”

“If you already know both, wouldn’t it be better to know more so you can be smarter? You know, for calculating and reading and stuff,” Damen asks, and Laurent glares at him, betrayed.

“I already know how to _read_ ,” Laurent snaps, shaking his hand free of Damen’s and crossing his arms, the flashlight pointing at the ground and illuminating his feet. “Everyone else is slow. Plus I hate gym class!”

“Is there anything you _do_ like?” Damen crosses his own arms, giving Laurent a sarcastic look.

“... I like playing with the unit blocks,” he acquiesces. “And drawing while everyone else catches up to me in the class books.”

“Okay, smarty-pants,” Damen rolls his eyes, and they reach the end of the bluebells.

Laurent steps onto the sidewalk with a wince, the rough asphalt grating against his skin unpleasantly. He takes a few steps into the pool of light under the streetlamps, then turns quickly in time to see Damen tiptoeing away.

“You’re not coming with me all the way?” He asks, hugging his flashlight closer to himself, though the tiny beam is swallowed by the glow overhead.

Damen shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be welcome,” he says, in a tone that sounds very mature, like a grown-up. Laurent waves hesitantly as he watches his friend disappear into the woods. When he can no longer see the white of Damen’s cloth, he turns to head home.

It’s only after Laurent clambers back in through his bedroom window and wipes his feet of the dirt that he realizes he didn’t bring his book home with him. Oh, well, he thinks. He can always go and get it tomorrow.


	2. SUMMER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for some ~*~* G A Y P A N I C *~*~ ??  
> [edit] now featuring some brand-new art from @LaurentKnows omg!!! :'3c

“Come on, it’s not much farther, I swear!” Damen says, taking Laurent by the hand. The smaller, disgruntled boy follows almost reluctantly, clutching this week’s book to his chest so it doesn’t fall into the mud. Auguste had given it to him months ago, and he’d been wanting to reread it for a while. It’s a collection of fae stories, including the infamous Cottingley Fairies that proved that fae don’t exist, and Laurent loves every page of it.

“This was cute three years ago,” Laurent grumbles. “I have homework due, like, tomorrow, you know.” Not that he’d been doing it to begin with, but it’s the intention that counts.

Damen tugs more insistently, nearly tripping over a fallen branch in his excitement. “I know, I know, but I promised I would show you one if I ever found one!”

They’d been hunting unicorns and fae for the past three years, and while the fantasy is fun to revisit Laurent feels like it might be time to grow up a bit. Even Auguste, who used to play tricks on him by claiming Laurent had gone missing for days and acting as though more time has passed than logically possible, had stopped his pranks and playing in favor of focusing on his school things. Sometimes it’s just time to grow up.

Laurent trails after Damen anyway, curious to see what it is the older boy wants to pretend is a unicorn. He lets his imagination run wild, despite himself, and for just a moment he lets himself believe that Damen truly caught a unicorn for him.

The shared fantasy between them is still unchanged since they’ve first met, and Laurent is the proudest eleven-year old fae king in the forest. Growing older, however, has its consequences, and their little house in the woods had grown small around them. Just last week, with heavy hearts, they took it apart with plans to rebuild it bigger.

Finally Damen begins to slow down, huffing with the effort of running while dragging Laurent behind him. He comes to a stop just by a large overhang of roots, the dead trunk cracked in the middle. Laurent eyes the area around it warily, leaning over to peek under the dried leaves.

“There’s no ring yet,” Damen says, letting go of Laurent’s hand and grinning. Laurent frowns at him and gives him his best glare.

“I’m not scared of faerie rings,” Laurent wipes his hand on his pants, and Damen looks helplessly amused.

“Okay. There isn’t one, though, it didn’t have the time to grow yet,” he points at the ground and kicks the leaves, revealing the ground to be bare. “Just letting you know, in case.”

Laurent briefly considers hitting his friend with the book, but decides against it the second he sees what’s perched on the broken trunk. Just over his head, a form looms out of the wood, covered in thick moss and motionless.

In his head, Laurent knows that its a chunk of broken wood, but the silhouette is unmistakably equine, and the branch tapering out of its ‘head’ gives it the perfect finish.

“Oh,” he breathes, and almost instinctively he reaches his hand up to touch it, to make sure it isn’t breathing. Damen catches him, though, just before his fingers can make contact.

“Don’t scare it, it’s hiding,” Damen whispers, and both he and Laurent slowly back away from the moss-covered unicorn. “They’re very easily spooked, and touching one causes it to petrify like real wood.”

“How did you find her?” Laurent asks softly, sidling closer to Damen. Damen looks at him strangely, amused.

“How do you know it’s a ‘her’?” Damen grabs onto Laurent’s shoulders to steady him as he backs up.

“She just feels like a ‘her’. How did you find her?”

Damen shrugs, and Laurent can feel the movement in his own shoulders. “I got lucky I guess. I’m fourteen now, which is two times seven. That means I’m double lucky.”

Laurent squints and turns to look at him over his shoulder, their conversation about numbers from years ago floating back into his memory. “I don’t think that’s how it works, Damen,” Laurent chastises, and Damen can’t help but laugh.

“How do you know it doesn’t work like that? Fae numbers are mysterious things.”

“You said lucky numbers are three, seven, five, and nine. You don’t have any of those in fourteen,” Laurent explains.

Damen shakes his head with a quiet laugh. “You’re the math expert, I guess,” he concedes. “Do you like the unicorn, though? I looked everywhere for her.”

“Do they all look like that?” Laurent asks, his attention easily drawn by the wooden beast. “Like they’re made of out of tree bark and moss?”

“The ones that live in the forest, yes. Come look at her from this side,” Damen suggests, easing around the fallen tree and Laurent follows him, transfixed. Even at a different angle, he could almost believe that the wood is hiding a real beast. He thinks he can see it breathing. “There are others that live in fields, but they don’t look as fancy. From very far, they just look like normal horses.”

Laurent looks away from the unicorn to watch as Damen trips over a hidden rock, landing directly in a patch of mud with a shout. The moment is gone, and Laurent laughs behind his hand while Damen pulls himself back up by grabbing onto a fistful of grass, the rock, and a small sapling nearby. When he’s finally on his feet, Damen looks down at his chiton (the cloth has a name, Laurent learned!) and frowns.

“That’s gross,” Laurent giggles, and Damen pouts at him as he tries his best to wipe the mud off, only succeeding in spreading it around on the white material.

“I have to change, now,” Damen whines, making Laurent laugh harder at his misfortune. The look in Damen’s eye turns sly and he reaches out to grab Laurent by the wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth and letting a sharp bark of laughter escape.

“Damen!” Laurent gasps, pulling his hand back quickly, but the damage is already done. Mud trails over Laurent’s wrist and down his hand in five, finger-shaped streaks. “I’m holding a book! Be careful!”

Heedless of Laurent’s protests, Damen plasters mud all over Laurent’s shirt, mostly the back as Laurent runs away from him squealing. He chases the younger boy all around the fallen tree, being careful of stray rocks and branches. Eventually, Laurent falls over and lands in his own patch of mud with a high-pitched scream.

Damen is on him in an instant, and they struggle in the mess they make, kicking up dirt and leaves.

“No, no! My book!” Laurent wheezes, almost reaching for the book when Damen pulls him back and rolls him into a pile of leaves. “Damen!”

“That’s what you get for laughing!” Damen shouts, picking up a handful of grass and sprinkling it over Laurent’s prone form, causing him to shriek. The torn blades stick to the mud, creating an even bigger mess.

“I’m all dirty now! Papa just washed this!” Laurent scrambles to his feet and frantically brushes at himself, passing his hand over his hair, to absolutely no avail. His clothes are beyond salvaging now.

“Isn’t that just too bad,” Damen says, propping himself up on his elbows. He doesn’t bother getting up this time. “I wonder, maybe, if you didn’t laugh, maybe I might have been less mean. But you laughed, and you totally deserved it.”

“You’re the worst,” Laurent grumbles but his face is lit up with a foolish little smile anyway. Thankfully, his book landed on top of some leaves, protecting it from most of the mud. He picks it up after wiping his hands and arms as best as he can, tucking it against his hip so he doesn’t get it dirty. “I’m going home to change, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Sure!” Damen says, finally getting to his feet. His chiton is ruined beyond salvaging, torn in some places and barely a single speck of white visible through the dirt and leaves. “Do you want me to walk you?”

Laurent shakes his head. “It’s okay, you should get changed too.”

Damen looks like he might protest, but then he looks down at himself and nods. “That’s fair,” he mutters, and rearranges the chiton so the torn parts don’t show as much. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Charls!”

He waves cheerfully as he leaves, and Laurent watches him go. Just before he turns away, Laurent looks back to the fallen tree and stops in surprise.

The unicorn is gone.

* * *

The bluebell jar sits in Laurent’s windowsill, tinkling lightly in the breeze. The house he and Damen rebuilt in the woods is a far cry from the coziness of their first, though much larger. The size of the structure makes it feel rather spacious, and the old tree stump they’d used as a table the first time had vanished, leaving the center of the structure feeling bizarrely empty.

No matter, the bluebells look just fine in Laurent’s room. People might think a twelve-year old boy would sneer at the thought of keeping flowers, but Laurent doesn’t particularly care enough about societal conventions. This, of course, makes him a prime target for bullies, who grow increasingly difficult to ignore during recess.

Damen still likes him, though. Damen asks about the bluebells at least once a week, reminding Laurent to water the jar and sometimes to refresh the dirt in it. It’s to ‘give them more nutrients’, Damen says, but Laurent isn’t too sure about the effectiveness of that. Regardless, the bluebells are thriving and they still make the same light chiming Laurent used to imagine when he was younger.

He read last week that flowers grow best with fertilizer, so Laurent packs his allowance and a small printed sheet about bluebells into his pockets before heading to the local gardening store.

The owner spots him as he walks up the stairs, waving to him cheerfully. She fixes her bright red hair into the striped bandana tied around her head, then turns back to the display she’s rearranging behind her. She seems familiar, but Laurent can’t place where he recognizes her from. With slow steps, Laurent approaches the counter and leans on it with both elbows.

“Hello,” he says, raising his voice a little to catch her attention again. Auguste and Papa always praise him for being so polite, unlike the rowdier boys at school. “I would like to buy some fertilizer for my flowers, please.”

She turns to him holding an empty pot and puts it on the counter before answering. “Of course, sweetie! What kind of fertilizer are you looking for?” She asks, leaning against the counter as well, coming eye to eye with Laurent.

Laurent nods and pulls the sheet of paper from his pocket, smoothing it out on the wood and showing it to her. “This website said something balanced and organic is best for bluebells,” he points at the chart on the paper, where he’d highlighted the important growing information.

“Bluebells?” The lady’s smile falls a little bit, but she catches herself before Laurent can ask what’s wrong. “Of course, let me check what kinds we have. Do you need a big bottle?”

Laurent nods and takes his sheet back while the lady rounds the counter and heads into the aisles to look for the fertilizer, leaving Laurent alone at the front. For a handful of minutes nothing breaks the silence except for some distant rummaging and a small, decorative fountain nearby.

“Are you the boy that keeps disappearing into the woods?” A voice rumbles from the backstore, and Laurent jumps in surprise. He peers over the counter to see an old woman in a wheelchair coming through the door. She stops on the other side of the counter and eyes him with amusement. “I hope you’re taking care of those bluebells.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Laurent says seriously, carefully dodging her question. He’d rather not get in trouble for going into the forest again. “I take very good care of my bluebells. I came to buy some fertilizer for them so they can grow healthier.”

She nods in approval. “It’s wise to treat gifts from the fae well,” she chuckles, a sound like old, creaking wood. “Unless one was to anger them and invoke their wrath.”

“What happens if I anger them?”

The old lady’s demeanor grows serious, and she pins Laurent with a sharp look. “You don’t want to anger them.” Her tone is final, and then she relaxes, leaning back into her wheelchair. “My husband used to go into the woods, like you. He was a good man, but foolish. I was told he gave his true name to a stranger before he disappeared.”

Laurent perks at this, and he leans forward against the counter until the edge of it bites into his collarbone. The lady’s expression turns teasing and she tuts at him.

“Do you know why we must not give our names to the fae?” She asks, and Laurent shakes his head because, while he knows the rule, he doesn’t know _why_ the rule came to be. She continues, seeing his curiosity. “Giving them your name is like giving them yourself. They own you, once they know your name. Just like my husband, you see, he gave his name to the fae and then they stole him.”

Laurent gasps in shock, and he’s suddenly very glad he uses the name Charls when he goes to the woods. If any stranger were to ask for his name, he would give them his fake name and they would never be able to steal him.

“Are you scaring him, mom?” The other lady comes back, holding a small bottle of fertilizer. She frowns at the older woman and shakes her head. “You know faeries don’t really exist. Dad got lost in the woods, you know that.”

The old woman laughs. “Yes, yes,” she says, shaking her head. “But there’s some grain of truth in legends. That’s why we named your brother Ancel, you know.”

“Ancel?” Laurent asks, feeling bad for interrupting when their attention returns to him.

“Yes,” the old lady says. “it sounds like ‘Ainsel’ which means ‘my own self’. If a faerie were to ask for your name and you tell them that, it would trick them.”

“Not like Ancel is going to run into a lot of faeries, living in the big city with his rich fiancé,” the younger lady says, giving her mother a _look_ that Laurent recognizes as the unspoken signal for adults to stop talking about certain things around children. She shakes her head minutely and scans the bottle of fertilizer. “That’ll be five dollars, sweetie!” She says to Laurent, who hands her the coins and takes the bottle from her.

Just before he reaches the door, the old lady’s voice comes from behind him again, and he turns around to look at her. “Be wary of the woods, boy,” she calls after him in her croaking voice. “What lives in there wants you, but you can’t let it have you.”

As he leaves the shop he can hear the two ladies inside bickering about the veracity of the rule and the fae, but all Laurent can think of is asking Damen about the name Ainsel. Damen is older, and he knows more about it than Laurent.

> By [LaurentKnows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurentknows)

It comes up later, when Laurent remembers the old lady as he’s gently sprinkling fertilizer over the bluebells closest to his and Damen’s new wooden house. The bottle is nearly empty now, having been used for the bluebell jar and then for as much of the path as possible, and Laurent briefly considers going back to the gardening store to get another bottle when the thought strikes him.

“Damen?” Laurent asks, raising his voice a bit. On cue, Damen’s curly head pokes out of the window he’s weaving new branches into. It’s been sagging a little in the middle, under the weight of the new roof.

“Yes?”

“How does the name Ainsel trick the fae?”

Damen almost drops the branch he’d been weaving. “Where did you hear that, Charls?” He asks with forced casualness. He picks up the branch and continues weaving it into the window frame. “I didn’t think people still told that story.”

“A lady at the store mentioned it,” Laurent says. “What’s the story? I don’t think she wanted me to know anything else about it.”

Damen purses his lips and finishes fortifying the window before he decides to go on. “Come inside, and I’ll tell you about it,” he beckons Laurent closer, and obediently Laurent follows him into the house. They sit together on the dirt floor, and Laurent frowns at the lack of table again.

“So what’s the story?” Laurent asks, running his hand over the packed earth, catching little bits under his nails. Damen looks at him curiously.

“You’ve really never heard it?” Damen asks, tilting his head to the side. “That’s okay, I know it by heart.”

Laurent settles in to listen, scooching closer to Damen and pressing their knees together. He looks up at Damen expectantly, catching a brief flash of some emotion he’d never seen in his friend’s eyes before.

“Well,” Damen starts, holding Laurent’s gaze for a moment before dropping it to his hands. “The story is about a little boy, a really long time ago. He lived alone with his mother in their little cottage, and they would always go to bed at the same time.

“One night, the little boy didn’t want to go to sleep with his mother, and stayed awake to play by the fireplace. At midnight, a little girl came down the chimney and asked to play with him. She introduced herself as ‘Ainsel’, which means-”

“My own self,” Laurent interjects, eyes wide and entirely captivated by the story. Damen glances up at him and grins.

“That’s right. ‘My own self’,” Damen continues, he puts his hands on his knees, almost brushing against Laurent. “When she asked what the little boy’s name was, he said ‘Ainsel, too.’ They played together by the fireplace for a while until the little girl stepped on a coal and burned her foot. It hurt a lot, obviously, so she threw a fit.

“That’s when a woman’s voice came down the chimney, asking for what happened. The little girl said that somebody hurt her, because she blamed the boy for her mistake. When the voice asked who hurt her, she replied ‘Ainsel’, because that’s the name the boy gave her.”

“What happened to the little boy?” Laurent asks, leaning forward eagerly. He almost wants to hit Damen when the older boy laughs at his enthusiasm.

“Well, since her name was Ainsel, and technically that means ‘my own self’, it sounded like she was blaming herself for getting hurt.” Damen explains. “That’s when the voice told her to stop throwing a fit about it if she was the one to do it to herself, and a hand came down the chimney, grabbed her by the foot, and pulled her back up!”

Laurent thinks about this for a second, then recoils. “Just a hand?!” He frowns, imagining a disembodied hand flying out of a fireplace to grab at him.

“No, it was attached to an unnaturally long arm,” Damen says. “That’s when the boy realized that his playmate was a fae, because her mom could stretch her limbs much longer than a human.”

“That’s freaky,” Laurent concludes, crossing his arms and pulling his knees back. “Can fae really do that? Wouldn’t bones get disconnected if they stretched like that?”

Damen purses his lips, thinking. “It would probably be magic,” he surmises. “Otherwise, I don’t think fae could really do that. It sounds like it would hurt, anyway.”

“But that still doesn’t tell me why the name Ainsel tricks fae,” Laurent points out, and Damen winces.

“Sure, but at least now you know where it comes from, right?”

“How does it trick them?”

Damen, seeing he wouldn’t be able to get himself out of this one, sighs deeply and shrugs, pulling his own knees back. “That old legend of not giving your name to the fae, you know why it exists, right?” He asks, and Laurent nods. “Well, names have power, specifically binding power. ‘Ainsel’ is just a way to trick fae into owning their own name, which cancels out the magic. If a fae has a human’s name, they can use magic to call on that human to compel them to do things. Think how a person would make their dog or something do tricks.”

“Do all fae do that? They make humans do things for them?”

“If they really want to, I suppose.” Damen hums, making a teetering motion with one hand. “They could order humans around, or they could make polite requests, but either way the human has to do it.”

Laurent frowns, dubious. “They _have_ to? What if they just say no?”

“Can’t do that. The longer the request or order goes ignored, the stronger the compelling feeling becomes,” Damen explains wish a shrug. “Eventually, they feel like that _have_ to do it, or else.”

“So like slavery?”

“Not necessarily!” Damen replies hastily. “If the command is revoked then it doesn’t hold power anymore, until it’s restated. Sometimes the name is used that way as a literal binding, like handcuffs, and sometimes the name is used as a spiritual binding, like marriage.”

Laurent squints at the last word, sticking his tongue out in distaste. “That sounds awful,” he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to be married to a fae like that. That’d be like marrying a total stranger, who can order me around! All they know about me is my name. That’s not a very good basis for marriage, or even just love.”

“It’s not ideal for the fae, either,” Damen says, putting his hands behind him and leaning back against them. He rolls his shoulders, and Laurent notices he doesn’t look directly at him. “It goes both ways, you know. The name-bond. If a human knows a fae’s name, then the human can compel the fae to do things for them as well. Plus, once a fae knows a human’s name they can never forget it. The human and fae are bound forever until one of them dies.”

They both go quiet at that, and Laurent can’t help but frown at the idea of a magical creature being ordered around like a slave. It would be demeaning, he thinks, for something with immeasurable power to be reduced to a trick-performer for a cruel human, or kept as a magical servant. Even if he wouldn’t like a fae to own his name, Laurent doesn’t think he could ever own somebody in that way either. 

“Is there any way that the fae and human can know each other’s names and not use it against each other?” Laurent asks after a long while. The look Damen gives him is strange, but a smile spreads across his cheeks anyway.

“If they trust each other, I guess,” Damen replies. “Either they avoid each other forever so that they can’t order each other around, or they stay bound and trust they wouldn’t hurt each other, and they can’t be bound to anyone else unless one of them dies. Almost like real marriage, I suppose, but a bit more dying is involved.”

Laurent bursts into a fit of giggles at the comparison. If knowing a person’s name is enough to be married, then everybody would be married to each other. It takes ‘til death do us part’ quite literally, as well. It seems like a very badly thought out system, to him.

“What’s so funny?” Damen demands, but the corners of his mouth twitch up, and his body threatens to laugh along with Laurent despite the stern face he tries to hold.

How could he explain to Damen how that could be funny? Instead, Laurent laughs harder. Damen surges forward and reaches for Laurent’s sides, causing him to shriek with laughter. Laurent is tickled mercilessly until he can only gasp for help.

The tickling ends when Laurent accidentally kicks Damen in the stomach, and he frantically tries to apologize as the older boy rolls on the ground in exaggerated agony.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Laurent says again, biting his lip to hold in the remnants of his laughter. He really does feel bad, and it would seem rude to laugh at his friend’s pain. “Can you forgive me? I won’t do it again.”

Damen stops his theatrics and stares straight up at the thatched grass roof, pretending to think about it. “I suppose,” he draws out, rolling onto his side to look at Laurent. “But only if you say you won’t do it again. Even if I tickle you.”

“I can’t promise that!” Laurent protests. “How about _you_ promise not to tickle me anymore, then?”

“Okay.” Damen says simply, rolling back up into a sitting position. “I won’t tickle you again. Especially not if it means I’ll get kicked all the time.”

Accepting that as his word, Laurent shrugs and lies down next to Damen. He can feel dirt getting into his hair but it doesn’t really bother him much.

“If you were a fae, I wouldn’t want to keep your name just to order you around,” Laurent says into the room. Dust motes illuminated from the thin rays breaking through the roof swirl where Laurent’s breath disturbs them. “I also wouldn't want to trick you. You’re my best friend.”

Damen turns toward him, looking surprised. He says nothing for a long while, shoulders sagging against the floor. “I don’t want to trick you, either,” he says softly, shaking his head, and sand drifts up from around him with the movement. They watch it dance around them in the light until it settles over them like a veil.

* * *

The kids at school don’t bother Laurent. That’s what he tells himself when they laugh at him where they think the teachers won’t hear, that’s what he tells the teachers when they ask him if he’s alright, and that’s what he tells Auguste and Papa when they threaten to go to the principal when Laurent comes home with scratches on his cheek.

“I tripped on the sidewalk and fell,” Laurent mumbles, which is only part way a lie. He did, in fact, get scratched by the sidewalk, but he didn’t fall by fault of his own. The look Auguste gives him tells him his brother doesn’t fully believe his lie.

“Don’t move so much, Lolo,” Papa instructs, holding Laurent with one hand as he uses an alcohol wipe to rub at the injury, ignoring Laurent’s protests. “Your teachers should do something about this!”

“It was just a prank, I got surprised and fell,” Laurent shakes the concerned looks off and grabs his books from the kitchen table, dodging Auguste’s hug and scurrying down the hallway. “It’s not a big deal, I have more important things to do than worry about idiots in my class.”

Papa tries to argue, but already Laurent shuts the door of his room and collapses on the bed. His books land open beside him on the mattress, and absently he flips them to the pages he was assigned in class. It would do him no good to dwell on the bullies today, he should finish his readings so he can go hang out in the woods.

It’s never that easy, of course. The next day, when Laurent comes into class, he sits down on a wet chair. Tentatively, he touches the liquid with the pads of his fingers and discreetly brings it to his nose. It doesn’t smell like anything, and when Laurent dabs it onto the tip of his tongue it has no taste either.

With a resigned sigh, even as he hears snickers behind him, he thanks his meagre luck that it’s cold water, and not a less pleasant substance. Like juice, for example, which would be significantly harder to dry unnoticed and would leave a distinct juice smell.

Sitting in damp pants all of first period isn’t ideal, but it’s better than getting up and asking the teacher to get a change of clothes. What would the other kids think of him then? He’s already the faerie boy, the nerd, and the class weirdo overall. No, wet pants is perfectly tolerable as long as he can avoid drawing more attention to himself.

It’s just a prank, he repeats in his mind over and over until the lunch bell, and then as the kids file out excitedly into the yard. When the room is empty and he’s the last out the door, Laurent slips past the hall monitor and rushes to the washroom.

It’s a little awkward, standing in his damp boxers while holding his pants under the hand dryer, eyes darting to the door every so often in case some other kid needs to use the washroom. The progress is rather slow but eventually he deems his pants dry enough, the dark water stain faded significantly, and slips them back on just in time for the end of lunch bell to ring.

Laurent manages to slip between two of his more savory classmates with a wad of paper towels hidden under his shirt, the hall monitor skimming over the top of his head passively as he ducks into the classroom and shuffles to his desk, discreetly mopping up the water before anyone else can notice it.

When the class resumes he slumps into his chair with a sigh, pushing the damp paper towels into an unoccupied corner inside his desk, vowing to throw it out during the next break.

Damen isn’t waiting for him after school, surprisingly, but Laurent doesn’t mind. He spreads his class books around him in an arc on the dirt floor of their house, the sun streaming in through the windows and through the branches giving him enough light to do his readings and start his many, many worksheets. Middle school homework is rough.

He almost wishes he had a phone, for a moment, so that he could call or text Damen to ask where he is. Then he remembers that the older boy doesn’t have a phone either, and he’s told Damen’s father doesn’t want him to have a phone anyway, so that train of thought is stalled at the station. Still, the idea of being able to contact his best friend anytime he wants is nice.

He’s about part way done with his second worksheet, geometry and an introduction to the pythagorean formula, when Damen stumbles in through the doorway, leaning on the supporting branches and causing the entire house to lean just slightly under his weight. He’s wearing a t-shirt and shorts for once, a radical change from his usual chiton. It looks good on him, Laurent decides.

“I’m late,” the other boy announces, as though it isn’t already glaringly obvious. The new deepness of his voice is strange, and it’s taking some getting used to. It breaks a the end of his words with a squeak which, combined with Damen’s apologetic expression, causes Laurent to giggle. He moves some of his books to the side so that his friend can sit.

“It’s fine,” Laurent replies. “I’m sure you have other things to do than sit around in the woods and watch me do homework.”

“Never!” Damen drops cross-legged into the space Laurent freed up, leaning over to see what he’s working on. “Nothing is more interesting than watching you struggle with algebra, you know.”

Laurent smacks him lightly. “That’s mean, Damen,” he tuts. “What’s up with your outfit? Tired of dressing up all the time?”

Damen looks down at himself as though just realizing what he has on. “Something like that, I guess,” he says cryptically. Laurent waits for further explanation, but gets none. He rolls his eyes and turns back to his worksheet.

“How was your day?” He asks, not looking up from his calculator. He writes down the answer he gets, double checking it by rewriting the formula for the problem.

“Nothing special, really,” Damen grumbles, fiddling with the hem of his shorts. He looks rather uncomfortable in them, but then again Laurent never sees him in anything other than that white chiton. “How was _your_ day?”

“Some kids put water in my chair,” Laurent tells him, missing the way Damen’s face darkens angrily. “It’s not a big deal though. I dried it during break and wiped it up before I got in trouble. It could’ve been a lot worse, honestly, so it’s okay.”

“Um,” Damen leans into Laurent’s space, tipping him over and checking the seat of his pants, ignoring the reedy protests the smaller boy makes. “That’s obviously _not_ okay, Charls! Does it happen often? Who are these bullies? Why are they being so mean to you?”

Laurent pushes him off and fixes his clothes, red-faced with embarrassment. “Don’t do that!” He hisses, fending off Damen’s wandering hands, indignant at the manhandling. “You can’t just- _grab_ me like that for no reason! There’s nothing to see on me, anyway, it’s already dry.”

“Have you told any adults about this?” Damen asks, putting a hand gently on Laurent’s shoulder. “Can’t they do anything about it?”

“You think I haven’t told an adult I’m being bullied?” Laurent snorts. He fixes Damen with a derisive look, shaking his head. “I’m not dumb, of _course_ I told someone about it. None of the teachers are gonna step in, though. You know what they tell us in the anti-bullying assemblies we have every year?”

Damen shakes his head, confused. Laurent almost feels bad for him.

“They tell us to ignore it. Or to talk to the bullies and try to be friends, or whatever. Anti-bullying campaigns are garbage, and all the teachers are gonna tell me is to tell the bullies to go away,” he says, and Damen’s frown grows by the second. “They’re just trying to get a reaction out of me, anyway, so as long as I don’t give them the satisfaction they won’t bother me too much.”

Damen practically vibrates beside him, visibly trying to hold in his outburst. Laurent allows him to speak with a small nod, and the older boy blurts out: “How can they just let you be bullied like that? They’re supposed to take care of you!”

“They have, like, a hundred other kids to take care of,” Laurent points out. “None of the teachers can handle that many students’ problems at the same time. I’m going to go to high school in, like, two years anyway. I won’t have to see any of the jerks from this school ever again if I don’t want to.”

“Two years?” Damen sinks back into a seated position, considering. “I’m gonna be an adult by then, probably. Or almost an adult.”

The statement surprises Laurent into silence, while Damen continues rambling on about something or other. It’s true, though, since Damen is fifteen now, and will be seventeen by the time Laurent starts high school. He thinks back on the handful of years he’s known Damen, staring at the older boy while he fumes in silence. He does seem older, Laurent considers, and his voice is growing deeper now, like a man’s. He’s also definitely taller than he was four years ago, but the change has been so gradual it’s almost as if he never noticed it at all.

“When I’m an adult, I won’t let anyone bully you,” Damen holds Laurent’s gaze as he says so. Laurent pretends he was listening to what he was saying before and nods seriously. “I’ll be there for you, even if you’re too shy to ask. I want to help you, y’know?”

It could be a combination of many things, like the promise of protection and support, or the intense look in his copper eyes, or maybe even the way the sunset filtering in through the branches of their little house in the woods illuminates his dark curls until they glow like the embers that spark and pop in his words. It can be a lot of things, but they come together in a way that twelve-and-a-half year old Laurent hadn’t thought of before now.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _Okay._

* * *

Laurent is fourteen the second time it happens. He’s officially been a “teenager” for a year now, and old enough to be subject to the relentless teasing from his father and brother. His body will be changing in _strange_ and sometimes _uncomfortable_ ways, they said to him. He might notice some awkward things happening when he looks at a girl, for example.

Ridiculous. Laurent already knows what they mean, he _does_ read a lot after all, and he’s never once thought of a girl in that way. Besides his lack of interest, it just seems rude to him. Most of the girls he knows aren’t interested in him, either, in all fairness, and Laurent privately rejoices in the fact that he might never be close or familiar enough with anybody to make his _developing body_ react in such ways.

Then again, perhaps he’s spoken too soon, as a manner of saying.

For the past year or so, from season into season, Damen has been wearing normal clothes like shirts and pants and shorts, and jackets when it’s cold and snowing. He’s seventeen now, almost an adult, and he claims now that ‘dressing up’ is for little kids. Laurent doesn’t bother to remind him that he was the one who wore a chiton all the time before, of his own free will.

Seven years already, Laurent sighs. Sometimes it feels shorter, and sometimes he feels as if they’ve known each other all their lives. Every day together is spent in the comfort of their house in the woods, except for today.

The heat is overbearing, record highs for the season, and Laurent is laying down in the shade of a maple tree as he waits for Damen to arrive, his head resting on the full bag of books he brought with him. He doesn’t feel like reaching behind him and opening the bag, or even holding up the weight of a book. The heat is too exhausting for such an effort, so it’s with great pain that Laurent scrolls through the reading app on his phone instead of a proper book.

It’s nearly an hour before the older boy shows up, clothes absolutely drenched and dripping water all over Laurent when he leans over.

“Charls, come on, there’s a whole _lake_ nearby!” he announces, not bothering with a greeting. Laurent sits up and pushes his friend to the side, leaning away from the water droplets. “Come on, let’s go! It’s so hot today, let’s go swimming!”

“How come _I’ve_ never seen this lake?” Laurent grumbles but obligingly gets up, brushing grass and leaves off of the back of his shorts and tucking his phone in his pocket. He has to admit that the idea of swimming seems rather appealing, given the temperature. Damen barely waits for him to pick up his book bag before he takes Laurent’s hand and tugs him in the direction he came from.

“Probably because you were never looking for it, before,” Damen shrugs. Simple as that.

Laurent frowns and tugs on his hand. “That sounds really sketchy,” he points out. “And weirdly convenient, too, I guess. You’re not trying to prank me, right?”

Damen screeches to a stop and grabs Laurent by both of his shoulders, startling him into stillness. “I would never!” He insists, frowning. “I would never play mean pranks on you, Charls, I promise.”

It feels heavier when Damen says it, his eyes never leaving Laurent’s. Unable to think of a suitable reply, Laurent only nods and Damen releases him, taking his hand again and leading him deeper into the forest, slower this time. They travel a few minutes in silence before Damen speaks up again.

“Do the other kids still play pranks on you?” He asks, and Laurent knows what he means.

“Not anymore,” he replies, shrugging, and the movement jostles their joined hands. He hoists his bag higher onto his shoulder when it slips. “It hasn’t bothered me in a while, plus we’ve just graduated and I won’t go to the same high school as them.”

Damen purses his lips and his eyebrows draw together in a rather funny look of frustration. He opens and closes his mouth a few times as though meaning to say something, but he pushes past a thick bunch of leaves and stumbles into the stone-riddled sand.

Laurent digs his heels in at the edge of the trees, hand slackening in surprise, allowing Damen to pull away. The older boy lets out a _whoop!_ and races forward, unceremoniously beginning to strip, flinging his shirt into the sand and kicking his shorts off until he’s only in boxers and wading up to his knees in the lake.

The dirt under his feet slowly changes to a rocky terrain, softening into sand closer to the water. Laurent takes a few hesitant steps forward, kicking some rocks as he approaches. He picks up Damen’s shirt and shorts, already rather damp from his earlier swim, bundling them up and dropping them behind a boulder so they don’t get too sandy. He sits on the boulder and begins to divest as well, folding his own clothes more neatly.

“You coming?” Damen calls, floating on his back in the water, just a little ways off from the shore. His feet kick a little, splashing himself in the face, and he sinks briefly as he flails around trying to wipe it off.

“Just a sec!” Laurent calls back, tucking his clothes into his bag and putting it beside Damen’s so he can find it later, and picks his way through the rocks until he’s ankle-deep in the water. “It’s cold!” he gasps, almost backing out until he catches sight of Damen’s smug, amused look.

“Isn’t that the point of swimming?” Damen asks, shrugging. He looks away, the movement exaggerated. “But, I guess you’ll just have to suffer out in the sun,” he says, “while I have a whole lake to myself and cool off. It’s better this way, you know, we don’t want you to go into shock and drown or anything.”

Laurent frowns petulantly at the teasing, steeling himself and taking another step into the water. He grumbles and whines the entire way until he’s submerged up to his shoulders, at which point his hair is long enough that it brushes the water, so his neck gets cold as well.

“This is terrible,” Laurent announces, arms crossed and shivering slightly. “It’s so much colder than I thought it would be, and now my underwear is wet.”

“But you’re nice and cooled down, right?” Damen asks, floating closer on his stomach like a smooth, brown-skinned crocodile. “Thanks to _who_?”

He squints at Damen accusingly and huffs. “ _Thanks to you_ I’m all cold _,_ and my underwear is wet, dummy.”

Damen frowns and pulls his legs under himself, drawing to his full height beside Laurent, who gulps a little nervously at the reminder of the differences in their height. Even on his tiptoes, Laurent is only eye-level with Damen’s collarbone. Damen says something, but Laurent is distracted by their proximity. Unable to help himself, he finds his gaze dipping lower in _academic curiosity-_

“Damen,” he says, interrupting the older boy mid-ramble. Damen stops at looks at him, leaning over a bit to see what Laurent might be looking at. “You don’t have a belly button,” his hand comes up unconsciously, his fingers just shy of brushing over the unnaturally smooth skin.

“What?” Damen leans all the way over, blocking Laurent’s line of sight with his absolute mane of curls. “Of course I have a belly button!”

Laurent fights his way through the tangle of hair and stares at Damen’s stomach, surprised to see the unmistakable indent of a navel where moments ago he was certain there was none. “Huh? But you didn’t have one, like, a minute ago!”

“That’s impossible,” Damen says, standing back up and nearly hitting Laurent in the nose with his head. “Everyone has a belly button.”

“You didn’t! You were completely flat!” Laurent insists.

“Maybe it was the water refraction,” Damen shrugs. “Anyway, you know how to swim, right?”

“Of course,” Laurent replies unthinkingly, disoriented by the abrupt change in topics.

“Good, that means I can show you the best way to warm up!” Damen slides both of his hands under Laurent’s armpits and hoists, and it’s the only warning he gets before he is making a graceful arc through the air, a glimmering trail of water in the wake of his flailing limbs.

He lands with a loud splash in the deeper part of the lake, and claws his way to the surface furiously. He wipes the water from his eyes and, between coughs and sputters, calls Damen every name he can think of in his extensive teenager vocabulary.

Damen only laughs and jumps in after him.

They chase each other around the lake for about a half hour before Laurent is too cold to keep swimming, and he sits on the rocks in the sun while Damen continues to splash around on his own. Laurent watches him for a bit, then decides it’s a much better use of his time to be reading, instead.

He doesn’t bother putting his own clothes back on, it’s much cooler in the sun without them, and so he has to carefully hold his book over his lap so that he doesn’t get the cover wet from his legs.

He manages to get pretty far into the story when he hears something strange. It isn’t a human sound, or even a natural sound. He looks up from his book and his eyes dart to his surroundings, chasing every shadow in the woods. It sounds like the feeling he would get when he thinks somebody called his name, but nobody around him has said a single word.

On the other side of the lake, a figure emerges from the trees.

“Brother!” Damen’s voice comes out gargled as he jumps out from the lake, where he’d been chasing fish into the rocks and weeds at the bottom. He shakes his hair out like a dog as he greets the man, and Laurent steadfastly ignores the squirming in his stomach at the sight.

The man is tall, just about a head taller than Damen, and he has a thick well-trimmed beard that contrasts his head of curls with its sharpness. Will Damen look similar when he grows older, Laurent wonders, or will he always look soft?

“Father is looking for you,” Damen’s brother says, not looking at Laurent at all. “You’re almost an adult, you are old enough to sit in on court meetings. It is important for you to attend.”

“But I-”

Damen is cut off by a sharp look from his brother. His mouth shuts quickly, and his eyes dart to where Laurent is sitting, the younger’s attention fully on the pair of them. Laurent reigns in his staring, fixing his eyes on his book once more, skimming over the words without really reading them.

“Gather your things, we are going back,” Damen’s brother says as he turns back to the woods. The sensation from earlier dissipates as he walks away, to Laurent’s relief. “Immediately.”

Laurent still doesn’t look up until Damen’s feet come into his field of vision, and then Damen is leaning over him to reach around and grab his clothes. Laurent gets an eyeful of Damen’s chest as the older boy pulls on his shorts but doesn’t bother with his shirt, keeping it balled up in his hand. Laurent finds himself having some difficulty keeping his attention on Damen’s face. _Huh_.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Damen tells him, frowning.

“It’s alright, I heard.”

He hesitates, and Laurent watches as he visibly tries to come up with some sort of excuse. Damen almost says something else, when a sudden flush comes over his face and he’s stammering his goodbye and chasing his brother into the trees.

Laurent looks around to see what might have caused Damen to be so flustered, when he catches sight of his own lap. With an undignified squeal, he pushes his book down to his thighs and covers himself, his face heating and thoroughly regretting not getting dressed earlier. _Strange and uncomfortable, indeed!_


	3. FALL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :3c
> 
> things move a little quickly in this one beware

High school is a complete blur. Laurent notices absolutely none of the first year, barely registering the homework and assignments he hands in. He thinks of how good he had it in elementary, when he could go into the woods every afternoon and spend time with Damen.

As it is, Laurent barely has time between projects to even _think_ about the woods. Second year midterms are coming up, and it’s thinking about his history essay on his way home that he realizes there is the sound of bells when he walks. He looks down through the red and brown leaves at the bluebells in surprise. His way home from his high school doesn’t come anywhere close to the woods, much less the path of flowers he’s grown so familiar with in his childhood.

He hasn’t been here in a long time. His voice hadn’t even really broken, the last time he’d walked down this path. Would Damen be waiting for him, even after almost a year and a half? If he isn’t waiting, will he come to see him, if he hears the bluebells?

It’s Friday afternoon, he reasons, and if he stays out a little late and gets distracted from the exam stress for a bit, who can really blame him? He’s allowed to have time for himself, for once. Laurent’s feet carry him to the clearing automatically and he nearly drops his backpack in surprise, barely catching it before it and the laptop inside hit the ground.

Across from him, in place of the kid-sized branch house Damen had built for him years ago, is a solid wood cabin. The leaves, still green here, cast a dappled shadow over it, rippling in the breeze. The birdsong is quiet, and it seems like the whole forest holds its breath. Hesitant, Laurent picks his way through the bluebells until he’s close enough to knock on the door.

The door make a hollow sound when he raps his knuckles against it. Footsteps thump closer until the door swings open, revealing Damen’s wide eyes and disheveled curls, tied together loosely at the nape of his neck. Laurent almost speaks, but there’s something about the way the wide collar of Damen’s sweater falls over his collarbone that has his tongue in knots. He’s the perfect height to be admiring it, Damen must have grown a foot taller in his absence.

“Charls! I wasn’t expecting to see you today!” He exclaims, bending over a little to look Laurent in the eye, obviously realizing where he’s been blatantly staring.

“No, I,” Laurent forces his brain into motion. “I decided to stop by before I get swamped by midterms. I haven’t seen you in a while.”

He’s ushered into the cabin and almost jumps out of his skin when he hears his shoes hit wood floor rather than the dirt he’s grown accustomed to. In the center of the room is a table and two chairs, and a couch-shaped chair is pressed up against the far wall. All made of wood. To his right, Laurent is astounded to find a second doorway, leading to another room.

“You’ve been handy around here,” he remarks, putting his bag on the table, which barely creaks under its weight. “Where did you find the time to make all this?”

Damen leans his hip against the table and gives him a wry smile. “Just worked on it slowly since last year.”

Laurent casts his eyes around the cabin again, falling on a worn garland of pine cones hanging on the wall behind him. Unthinkingly, he reaches out and touches it, nostalgic.

“I haven’t been here a lot,” he turns back to Damen, who’s smile softens.

“It’s okay, you’re busier now.”

Laurent grimaces at the veiled accusation. “Not too busy that I couldn’t visit my best friend.”

“Hey, it’s fine! I get it,” Damen waves his mood off and pulls out one of the chairs, dropping into it heavily. “Come on, sit with me. We have all afternoon to catch up!”

Laurent pulls out the second chair and takes his seat. His attention diverts to the decoration that hangs over the front door; two dry, overlapping crowns of gold ferns.

“You really didn’t miss a single detail, did you?”

Damen’s eyes follow the line of Laurent’s gaze, and he laughs a bit when he spots the crowns. “Those aren’t the originals, I have to admit,” he scratches the back of his neck, tugging a bit on his ponytail. “We lost those ones a long time ago.”

“Still,” Laurent puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his curled fist. “I can’t believe I missed all,” he waves his free hand around himself. “This, just because I didn’t want to miss a deadline or skip a class. At least your decorating skills have improved.”

“It’s just been a year, it hasn’t been that long.” Damen shrugs, and Laurent gasps.

“I can’t believe you’re eighteen, now!” He exclaims. “A real adult! How does it feel?”

Damen grins at him, and Laurent thinks the spark in his eyes might be fondness. “No different than being seventeen, honestly.”

“You can vote now, though,” Laurent points out. Damen throws his head back with laughter.

“If I wanted to, I suppose.”

Laurent tugs on the strap of his bag absentmindedly. “So, what else did I miss over the summer?” he asks. “Dad didn’t want me going into the woods, something about weird things happening to other kids.”

“Not much, honestly,” Damen rocks back on his chair. “Just the house. How about you, with school? Is it fun, so far?”

The small talk is awkward and grates on Laurent’s nerves. Has it been so long that they haven’t spoken to each other, that they’ve forgotten how to?

“School is fine,” he says. “There’s lots of assignments and stuff. Dad and Auguste keep teasing me about meeting people, and getting a ‘high school sweetheart’.”

“You meet people?”

Laurent’s glare is scathing, and Damen puts his hands up in surrender. “I just mean, you _did_ spend the better part of seven years hanging out with, like, only one other person in the woods.”

“Considering you _are_ the other person, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on in that argument.” Laurent raises a single eyebrow in disbelief, causing Damen to laugh.

“So, did you meet someone?” Damen’s tone is strange when he calms himself down. “Any cute girls catch your eye?”

“You sound like Auguste, now,” Laurent huffs, pulling back and crossing his arms. “And, no, no _cute girls_ caught my eye.”

“Cute guys?” Damen leans across the table on his elbows, his grin teasing. “What about me?” He plays with the collar of his sweater and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Laurent until he looks away, red-faced.

“No, of course not,” Laurent says hotly, schooling his features into annoyed impassiveness. It’s not a topic he’s even broached with his father and Auguste, yet. They both expect him to crush on girls, what would they think of him if he told them otherwise? What would Damen think of him?

Auguste might be okay with it, Laurent remembers their talk from when he was seven about ‘boys liking boys’ and ‘girls liking girls’, but father is a little more free-game than Laurent entirely trusts with something so sensitive and personal. He looks up at Damen, who is drumming his fingers on the surface of the table with an expectant expression.

Laurent’s been silent for too long, it’s definitely getting suspicious. “What about you?” He blurts out to fill the silence.

“Me?”

“Did you meet anyone?”

Damen’s smile drops and he’s also silent for a minute, though Laurent suspects it may be a result of his heavy-handed deflecting. Eventually, Damen straightens from where he’s sprawled on the table and responds. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call it _meeting_ someone, but there’s this girl…”

Already Laurent’s gut twists violently. He should have known. “Oh?” He asks anyway. “Do you like her? Is she nice?”

“Her name’s Jo, and she’s ‘nice’,” Damen uses air quotes here. “It sort of depends on what your definition of ‘nice’ is, I guess.”

“But do you like her?” Laurent feigns interest, mirroring Damen’s earlier actions and leaning his elbows on the table. He feels like he’s swallowed curdled milk.

“In a way of speaking, yes,” Damen shrugs, then shakes his head. “My father seems to think we’re going to be married. He’s very traditional about the whole ‘family’ thing and bloodlines. He wants me to carry on the family name, or whatever.”

“And you don’t want that?” Laurent asks, and something in the way Damen’s face twitches begins to tighten his knotted stomach. The older boy was never particularly good at hiding things from him. “Do you not like girls?”

Damen frowns and he brings his hands together, wringing them. He looks like he might cross his arms at any moment. “I like girls just fine,” he says, defensively. “She’s just- she’s not who I’m interested in.”

Interesting. “So she’s not attractive?”

“I never said that-”

“What does she look like?”

“Is that really important?”

“Does she like you back?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

Laurent’s teeth come together with a _click!_ He purses his lips and turns away, fixing his gaze firmly on the crowns hung over the door. “What if I’m just curious about what’s going on in my best friend’s life?”

Damen spears him with his eyes, flashing gold in the soft shadow of the cabin. “Do you really want to know?” he asks, his annoyance colouring his words. “I’m allowed to like people and have friends other than just you, you know.”

“I never implied otherwise,” Laurent bites back smoothly.

“Then why are you acting like you’re jealous?”

Laurent’s mind screeches to a halt. Is he? He doesn’t recall ever feeling anything of the sort toward anybody before. “I’m not _jealous_ -”

“Then how come, when I mention I met someone new, you start asking me all these questions? Why does it matter to you if I like her or she likes me?” Damen does finally cross his arms and stares resolutely at Laurent, who seethes and sputters indignantly, face reddening.

“But I’m not _jealous_!” he protests, and Damen laughs a little.

“Oh no? Then how come you wanna know so much about Jo?” Damen probes, arms tightening around himself. “Are _you_ interested in her? Because I’m not introducing you guys.”

“No, I’m not interested in her! I never even met her, before! She sounds boring, anyway.”

Predictably, Damen grows incensed at the insult to his new friend. “She isn’t boring! You just don’t know her. She’s funny and smart, and we get along just fine!”

“You just said before, she doesn’t interest you! You don’t even think she’s nice!” Laurent’s volume increases to match Damen’s, both of them leaning over the table glaring at each other through the haze.

“Why does this bother you so much? She’s just another friend I happen to have!”

“Fine, then! If she’s such a good friend, go hang out with her instead!”

The tension releases like the snapping of an elastic band. They fall back into their respective chairs and sit in silence for a while, stubbornly avoiding looking each other in the eye. Neither of them want to speak up first, and Laurent stubbornly fiddles with the strap of his bag instead of addressing the way the argument sits in his chest like a thousand pounds.

With a particularly hard tug on the strap, Laurent’s bag falls into his own lap and jolts him out of his furious pouting. He breathes a measured sigh through his nose.

“I didn’t want this to go that way,” he grumbles, and Damen looks at him out of the corner of his eye, just a sliver of fire that tracks Laurent’s movements.

“What way did you want it to go?”

Laurent bites his lip. “I wanted to know if- If you like someone else, you won’t come see me anymore.” He says as an excuse, and then realizes it’s true. He isn’t sure he could bear to lose any of Damen’s attention on himself.

“Sounds like you _are_ jealous.”

Laurent blows a sigh out his nose and turns around on his chair, facing away from the table. Is that what jealousy is? It’s an ugly feeling, and he doesn’t think he wants to feel it anymore. “Whatever.”

“ _You’re_ the one who hasn’t been around in close to a year, now.” Damen reminds him, and it stings quite a bit. Something must show on his face because Damen softens, uncrossing his arms and slumping into his chair. “Of course I’ll always come see you, Charls,” the fake name sounds clunky in his mouth. “I’ll always like you more than anyone else. We built this home together, remember? We’re best friends.”

“Friends, yeah,” Laurent squirms in his seat at Damen’s sincerity. He wants to believe him, really, but he just _has_ to know. “Jo, do you really like her, too?” he asks, softer than before, uncertain.

Damen grins a bit this time, and shakes his head. “A little,” he states. “But only because she kinda reminds me of you.”

Laurent perks up a little at that, completely unsubtle, and Damen laughs. “She’s blonde, with blue eyes, and super intelligent,” he describes, and Laurent allows himself a little bit of childish hope. Damen’s grin grows wider. “She’s also a little mean when she doesn’t get her way, but otherwise she’s kinda nice and she likes me.”

“... But?” Laurent prompts, sensing something unmentioned. He’s connecting the dots, and he’s so sure of the finished picture, but what if he’s wrong?

“But, uh,” Damen stretches the moment out until Laurent is almost shaking himself out of his seat. “She isn’t you.”

It takes a few seconds for the statement to register in Laurent’s head, and then he turns his head back at Damen in shock, his own hair whipping around to hit him in the face. He completely short circuits, staring with his jaw unhinged and blushing furiously. It takes everything in him not to start shouting again, in joy this time. “You… like me?”

Damen shifts uncomfortably, the confident, teasing grin slips into a hesitant look. “Is it weird?” he chuckles, shoulders raising almost imperceptibly. “If I- if I like you? We’ve been friends forever, and I don’t wanna ruin that. I’m almost an adult, and you’re still technically a kid…”

“There’s only about three years difference between us,” Laurent says, almost to himself. He frowns slightly. “And I’m sixteen now.”

“Like I said, still a kid,” Damen says, and Laurent cuts him off with a look.

“I’m sixteen now,” he repeats. “And I’ll be graduating high school in, like, two years, and I’ll be eighteen by then.”

Damen squints in confusion. “Yeah, that’s how aging works, usually.”

Laurent just barely reins in the urge to reach across the table and smack him. “I mean, when I’m eighteen,” he says, haltingly. Unable to maintain eye contact, he looks down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with one nail. “Then you can… ask me out, and stuff. If you still want.”

The older boy’s face changes from confusion to surprise slowly, and then excitement. “Really? It won’t be, y’know, weird or creepy to, like, wait?”

“You’re not a bad guy, I trust you not to be creepy about it. And it’s only if you still want to, by then,” Laurent chances a look up, and Damen’s smile is blinding. “It’s two years, after all, maybe your crush won’t last that long.”

“It’s not a crush, I really, really like you,” Damen states, serious despite his apparent happiness.

“Oh,” Laurent feels his flush deepen. “Well, I like you, too.”

The rug under his feet is littered with dry leaves when Laurent comes home, leaves that weren’t there this morning. He toes his shoes off and heads to the kitchen, where his father is cooking supper and whistling softly.

“Where did you guys go, today?” He asks, and Papa turns around, surprised, something like relief flickering in his eye before it’s gone.

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” Papa shrugs. “Just groceries. Where have you been?”

“Out,” Laurent replies, in the curt way teenagers do. He dumps his bag on the kitchen table and pulls out a chair for himself.

“Out doing what?”

“Just went for a walk.”

Papa turns around with a frown, worry lines creasing his forehead. “Not in the woods, right?”

“Of course not.” Laurent doesn’t look at him when he lies.

“Good,” Papa takes a pot off of the stove, stirring it with one of the silicone spoons. “You know a boy went missing last month, in the woods. I don’t want you to go missing too.”

Laurent rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t a boy, he was, like, twenty-five years old. And he just ran away,” he points out. “His parents said he had a backpack and everything. That’s not missing, dad, he’s probably got an apartment and a job on the other side of the country by now.”

Papa says nothing, setting the spoon and pot aside and moves on to chopping some cucumbers. He drops the slices into a salad bowl just off to the side, and Laurent takes the opportunity to sneak behind him and snatch a few slices and stuff them in his mouth.

“My own son, a cucumber thief!” Papa exclaims when he finally catches him in the act, swooning dramatically. “Abandoned to the life of a produce pilferer!”

“You raised me this way,” Laurent says around his mouthful, and Papa laughs.

“How dare you criticize my parenting? I’ll remember this.”

“Why are we in such a good mood?” Auguste pokes his head in from the vestibule, the door slamming behind him, and he spots Laurent tussling with their father over the last cucumber. He shakes a few leaves out of his hair and grins. “Hey, Laurent, long time no see. Finally deigned to grace us with your presence?”

Laurent squints his eyes at his brother accusatorially. “If that’s a crack at how I’m always in my room…”

Auguste puts his hands up. “I would _never_ imply that you are ever in your room for suspicious amounts of time,” he says, a slow grin taking over his features. “I’m just saying, at your age it’s perfectly normal to seek privacy for extended periods-”

“I’ll kill you for even thinking that! I’m just doing homework!”

“You’re a growing boy,” Auguste manages to say before he lets out a squawk and has to dodge Laurent’s grabbing hands, and they chase each other into the living room.

Papa smiles fondly at his sons, glad they can get along so well despite their age differences. Carefully, when Laurent is out of sight, he wipes the three red X’s marking the weekend, from friday to sunday, off the whiteboard calendar stuck to the fridge.

* * *

Laurent tosses his backpack onto the wooden table and collapses into the available chair with a groan. He winces at his own landing and slowly tilts forward until he hits his head against the surface of the table.

“I hate exams,” he announces, echoing in the cabin. “And you need cushions for your chairs, because they’re really hard and they suck.”

“I know someone else that’s really hard and sucks,” Damen says, almost bored and patting the top of Laurent’s head softly in contrast to his suggestive words.

“I’m not eighteen yet, you’re not allowed to say that.”

Damen snorts. “As if you haven’t said worse, and _you_ were younger.”

“I’ve said worse literally this morning.” Laurent points out. “But you’re not allowed to say it back because I’m not eighteen yet and that’s illegal.”

“You have less than a week to go before you’re eighteen, don’t I get a little bit of leeway?” 

Laurent rolls his head to the side so that his cheek is pressed against the wood. He looks up at Damen and smirks. “ _You’re_ the one that’s been insistent on waiting until I’m eighteen to so much as _date_ , so no. Dirty jokes are illegal and you’re going to jail.”

“Murder is also illegal, but I’m considering it a little right now.” Damen states, faking a frown while still patting Laurent’s hair absentmindedly.

“You would never murder me,” Laurent rolls back facedown. “You’re too much of a wimp”

“I wouldn’t really want to murder you, anyway. I like you too much for that.”

“Wow, so no comment on you being a wimp?” Laurent laughs, slightly muffled from where he’s squished into the wood. “And no defence for your chair craftsmanship, either, apparently.”

“How was your exam?” Damen says, finally stopping his petting and using his arms as a cushion, laying down closer to Laurent’s head. “You only have… three left, right?”

Laurent lets out an anguished groan at the reminder. “Can this week just be over, please? Can I just graduate and be done with it?”

“You’ll be done soon. Want to study a bit while you’re here? I can be quiet.” Damen offers, and Laurent shakes his head.

“I don’t even want to think about my last exams, please,” he groans. “I just want to pass, graduate, get my diploma, and ignore prom.”

He hears the sound of Damen pushing himself upright. “Why do you want to ignore prom? Isn’t that supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience?”

“I suppose,” Laurent looks up and teeters his hand uncertainly. “But nobody asked me to prom, and I didn’t ask anyone either, so there’s no point in going alone.”

“That’s a shame. I’m not allowed to go to town, otherwise I’d go with you.”

Laurent eyes Damen for a minute, frowning slightly, until he comes to a decision. “Damen,” he begins, sitting up in his chair. Damen’s expression changes to one of vague trepidation.

“Yes?”

“Will you go to prom with me?”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

Laurent waves him off with a huff. “I didn’t mean at school,” he clarifies. “What if we had our own prom, right here? We won’t even need to dress fancy or anything, we’d just need music to dance to.”

Damen’s eyes widen and he stares at Laurent with a slack mouth, seemingly unable to formulate a response.

“Or we could sit in the house in total silence and stare at each other, that works too.” Laurent rolls his eyes, just missing the movement of Damen rounding the table and sweeping his smaller form clean off the chair.

“I’d love to go to prom with you!” Damen exclaims, twirling Laurent around in his arms. “And you’ll be eighteen, then, so it can be like our first date!”

His excitement is infectious, and Laurent can’t help but smile and laugh in return.

* * *

Laurent vibrates with excitement, the mid-June weather is pleasantly warm even in the evenings. He’d shucked off his suit jacket the moment convocation ended and left it at home; he’d done the whole ‘throwing the graduation cap’ thing at the end of the ceremony, socialized a little with his celebrating classmates, and had his photo taken a few times by his enthused father and brother, but the rest of the evening belongs to him.

And to Damen.

The bluetooth speaker he grabbed from his room is bulky in his pocket, but it’s fine. He told Damen there would be music, after all.

He knocks on the heavy wooden door of the cabin, absurdly nervous despite the fact that _he’d_ been the one to ask, and Damen had been more than pleased at the idea. The door creaks open slowly, and Laurent pushes his way in.

There’s a candle in a jar on the table, and smaller similarly lit jars resting on every available surface in the cabin. Damen ushers him in, and if Laurent were any less focused on him he might have missed the shaking in Damen’s hands.

“Hey,” Damen says, more like a whisper. He gathers Laurent into his arms and hugs him tightly. “Congratulations on surviving your exams. And graduating, of course.”

“Thanks.” Laurent takes in Damen’s outfit, a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans, with red Converse knock-offs, and snorts. “Dressed for the occasion, I see.”

The taller man—because that’s what they both are now, Laurent reminds himself—looks down at his clothes at the remark. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t made aware there was a dress code planned,” he deadpans, and Laurent has to laugh.

“It’s fine, I’m already missing half of my suit anyway.”

Damen rakes his eyes down Laurent’s form in an almost clinical way, considering his state of dress more critically than Laurent thinks anyone wearing jeans and a t-shirt should. “You look fine to me,” Damen concludes after his observation.

That’s almost depressingly reticent of him. “Just fine?” Laurent wheedles, leaning in closer with a teasing smirk. “That’s all you have to say to your date? I’m almost regretting asking you out, if that’s the extent of your ability to compliment.”

“We’re on a date,” Damen says, mostly to himself. He lights up slowly, and his eyes flicker like the candles.

Laurent nods and steps away, out of Damen’s loosely grasping hands, and pulls his speaker out of his pocket. He puts it on the table, along with his phone, and connects the two devices. He can feel Damen hovering over his shoulder curiously as he picks a playlist, only vaguely embarrassed by his song choices. Ed Sheeran is a perfectly valid musician with catchy hit-list songs, and Laurent likes him, so he’ll be damned if anyone tries to shame him for being mainstream.

“That sounds nice,” Damen hums along discordantly with the music, and Laurent is glad he agrees despite the man’s tendency to state the obvious.

“I was told we would have a dance?” He asks lightly, holding his hand out with purpose. Hesitant and sweet, Damen slowly takes it in his own and pulls him in, resting his other hand on Laurent’s hip before leading them both into a slow, swaying dance around the table.

Three songs pass before Laurent can barely take the careful tenseness between them. He wants to grab Damen and kiss him senseless, though he doesn’t know how. He wants to stay up with Damen into the night, just talking about nothing and everything and nothing again, like when they were kids. He wants to lay down with Damen on the floor, the couch, maybe a bed, and just hold him until neither of them can stay awake. But still, he doesn’t know how.

“So, our first date.” Laurent mumbles into the fabric at Damen’s shoulder, unable to look him in the eye. Their ‘dance’ slows until they’re both simply standing, holding onto each other and leaning into each other’s space without purpose or intent. “I don’t know how dates, uh, work. What are we supposed to talk about?”

“Do we have to talk?”

“Isn’t that the point of dating? To talk, and get to know each other?”

Damen laughs, and Laurent can feel the breath of it rustle his hair. “Is there anything about each other we don’t already know?”

“Well,” Laurent drawls, masking his own uncertainty with nonchalance. “Maybe you don’t know this, but I think I’ve had a crush on you for a long time.”

He says it like a joke, and he knows Damen would never use it against him, but the confession leaves him vulnerable nonetheless. He feels a lightly callused hand against his cheek and he lets his head be tilted up, until he can see nothing but Damen’s copper eyes.

“I think,” Damen whispers. “I think I’ve known, for a long time, too.” Laurent leans into Damen’s hand, unable to help himself, and then the moment is ruined when Damen continues:

“If you’re talking about that one time at the lake, then it was kinda obvious.”

“Stop!” Laurent gasps, offended, and tries to pull himself out of Damen’s arms. The man only laughs, trying to drag him back into a hug. He can feel the redness burning in his cheeks and makes an attempt to hide it with his hands. “That was the most embarrassing day of my entire life! How dare you bring that back up, after all this time?”

“Listen, it totally wasn’t even that bad,” Damen reassures him, his grip around Laurent a vice. He rests his chin on the top of Laurent’s head, the vibrations of his mirth travelling down Laurent’s spine from the point of contact. “One time, my brother walked in on me-”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

Their silence is awkward and Laurent chances a look at Damen’s face, finding him hopelessly charmed and amused. He wheezes and pushes his face into Damen’s shirt, and soon Damen is laughing with him.

“Did your brother really-”

“He doesn’t even look me in the eye anymore.”

“I’m so glad Auguste never walked in on me doing anything other than _homework_!”

Damen snickers at that. “ _Do_ you do anything other than homework?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Laurent teases, and they both break down into giggles again.

Damen steers them into the couch against the wall, and Laurent immediately wishes Damen had followed his advice about getting cushions when he lands sideways on the crest of his hip. The impact sends a jolt through him, but the pain is muted by the feeling of elation that he can’t seem to shake.

Laurent is wiping tears of laughter from his eyes when Damen shuffles to face him fully. He takes Laurent’s free hand in his own and draws in a short breath.

“Can I…” Damen starts, and Laurent notices he’s shaking again. “Can I kiss you?”

Laurent blinks. Is that a normal first date thing? Is it okay for them to kiss, so soon, he wonders. Then again, he’s probably wanted Damen to kiss him for a while, now, so he steels himself and nods, unable to voice his agreement in his nervousness.

They bring their faces together and it’s painfully awkward, their noses bump and Damen actually misses his lip by about an inch the first time he goes for it. They laugh against their cheeks and try again, this time connecting in a soft, chaste kiss.

When they pull apart they’re both blushing profusely, trying to meet each other’s eyes but failing miserably. Laurent feels a smile tug at his lips.

“Was that okay?” Damen asks, squeezing Laurent’s hand.

“I think so,” Laurent replies, feeling his veins buzzing from the remnants of their contact. “I think we might have to try again, just to make sure it was alright.”

The second time they kiss, Laurent lets himself act a little foolishly. He lets go of Damen and brings his own hands up to run his fingers through Damen’s hair, like he always sees in the movies. Damen gasps against his lips, and Laurent grins into his mouth. He pulls Damen closer to himself, risking a gentle tug on his tangle of curls as he presses against Damen’s lips a third time.

He brushes against something suspiciously solid in Damen’s hair, and he stops the kiss. There, he notes, just above his temple. He leans away from Damen slowly, mapping the mysterious thing with the pads of his fingers until they’re wrapped around it. Tentatively, he feels the other side of Damen’s head and finds it’s match. He opens his eyes and sees his own hands grasped around nothing, and yet he feels them in his palms.

“What’s wrong?” Damen asks, but his face gives him away. He’s never been able to lie to Laurent before, after all.

“What is this?” Laurent asks back, running his hands over the invisible shapes, coming to a curved point over Damen’s head. His heart begins to sink.

“I don’t know what you mean,” The taller man laughs nervously, and Laurent grabs both invisible points and pulls them viciously. Damen lets out a cry of pain as his head is jerked with them.

“Don’t bullshit me!” Laurent hisses, eyes fixed where he’s holding air. Now that he knows they’re there, like the mirage of water on a hot road, the glamor, because that’s what it is, evaporates and the deep rosewood horns shimmer into view. “What the hell is this?”

“They’re horns!” Damen shouts, as if Laurent doesn’t already know, can’t see them with his own two eyes. He finally manages to pry Laurent’s hands off and backs away, out of the blond’s reach. “They’re horns, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”

They’re arched over Damen’s head, covered in a rich mahogany fuzz. If he were anyone else, Laurent would be terrified. He is every nightmare the _rules_ warned him of made flesh.

“Why the _hell_ do you have horns, Damen? What does this mean?”

Damen clamps his lips resolutely shut, biting them down and looking away from Laurent angrily, guiltily.

“Answer me!” Laurent demands, ignoring the trembling in his own voice. “Are you a fucking fae? Are you telling me fae are real? This entire time?”

In the heavy silence that follows, the bluetooth speaker crackles and distorts the music coming from it. Laurent gets up, stomping to the table, and powers the device off viciously.

“Yes.” The answer is clipped and raw, and Laurent can’t bring himself to turn around and see the hurt that’s written across Damen’s face. As if _he’s_ the one who’s been tricked, manipulated for eleven years. _Eleven years-_

“You lied to me.” Laurent grinds out, gripping the wood of the table so hard he might give himself splinters. “Why did you never tell me about this? You _know_ how superstitious the community is. You really just, what, decided to fuck with me for over a decade? For fun?”

“Of course not!” Damen protests. “I never meant to _fuck_ with you, or anything. You’re my friend.”

“Friend.” Laurent scoffs, finally bringing himself to turn around and face him. He has his hands out placatingly, but it only serves to incense Laurent further. “You think we’re friends? You’re _fae_ . Manipulating and beguiling humans is what your kind _do_.”

“No, please, I never manipulated anything about you,” Damen almost begs. He takes a step toward Laurent, who takes a responding step backward. He stops in his tracks. “I did everything I could to be as human as possible so that you would never be affected by my magic. I never lied to you.”

“You never told me what you are! That counts as lying!”

The fae frowns and pulls his arms into himself, crossing them over his chest. “I can’t have lied to you if you never actually asked,” he defends, and Laurent has enough.

“Well, I’m asking now,” he mirrors damen and crosses his arms. “You’re fae, right? Then show me.” Damen hesitates for a second too long, and Laurent raises his voice. “Show me! Come on, are you scared now? Drop that stupid glamor and show me what you really are!”

It happens strangely, as though Damen’s form melts into a different one, like he’s rising out of darkness and it slides off of him like water off a duck. It’s slow, but it’s also so fast Laurent can’t track it with his eyes.

The deep crimson horns are only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Damen’s eyes glow orange, casting a hot light over his features, and his clothes become the familiar white chiton of Laurent’s early memories. The belt is made up of animal leather, and two ruddy fox tails hang off of his hip where they’re tied. He’s barefoot, and his nails are deep brown and pointed like claws. His hands must be the same. On his back, trailing behind him, are a pair of moths’ wings.

Folded, they fall down his back in a mockery of a cloak; dark brown, veined like wood, and framed by thin shocks of white. The tails of them drag on the wooden floor, and when Damen opens them the four wide, paper-thin sections unfold to reveal white rimmed eye spots of gold.

 _Hercules moth_ , Laurent thinks, before catching himself and shaking the thought from his head. His words come out wry and tired. “Wow. You really are fae, aren’t you?”

Damen nods slowly, and that’s the final nail in the coffin.

“Unbelievable,” Laurent grabs his phone off the table, almost grabbing the speaker as well but it slips from his hands, hitting the floor in pieces as he’s sidestepping Damen, who makes another attempt at coming close to him. “Don’t touch me! I can’t believe I let you even-“

He can’t finish his sentence. He heads for the door, pushing it open when a hand wraps around his wrist. “Wait, please, Laurent,” Damen pleads one more time. “Let me just explain-“

“Excuse me?” Damen may be fae, but Laurent feels like the dangerous one right now. He yanks his wrist out of Damen’s grasps and whirls on him, teeth bared. “What did you just call me?” The fae opens and closes his mouth, unable to explain what Laurent can already tell on his own.

“You have my _name_ , Damen?” He’s almost hysterical, voice cracking on the word. “I never gave that to you, we both know that, where the hell did you hear it?!”

He follows as Laurent backs away from the cabin, having to bend down slightly to avoid knocking his horns on the doorframe. “I heard it,” he says slowly, like it’s painful for him, like he wants to lie but his nature as a fae forbids him. “When your brother was calling for you, in the woods.”

Laurent stops his retreat and searches his own memory. “... When was this?”

Damen grits through his teeth the answer: “Years ago. When we first met. I heard him in the woods, shouting your name, and I found you on our side of the trees.”

Laurent would punch him, if he thought he’d have the strength to. As it is, he feels weak, heavy-limbed, and barely standing through sheer force of will. Damen had his name for this long? Since the very beginning? What sorts of enchantments has he put on him, since them?

“I was just going to scare you away,” Damen continues, as if he hadn’t just flipped Laurent’s entire world on its side. “Kids are more sensitive to it than adults, I thought- I was just going to tell you to leave, or maybe shout at you a little, and then you’d be back on the human side and I’d never see you again. But then you asked me…”

“I asked you to build a home with me.” Laurent finishes weakly, and the snippets of conversations long past, paragraphs in old books he got for Christmas and birthdays and any occasion his father could find to give them to him. “I asked you to make this place a home and be king with me.” In Damen’s own words, a name-bond is like marriage. A proposal, the kind Laurent offered so naively, is just a formality at that point.

“It didn’t mean as much, since we were kids, but you know fae mate for life.” Damen adds, wringing his clawed hands together. “I was going to tell you, eventually, but-”

“There’s no ‘buts’,” Laurent sucks in a breath and hunches his shoulders, hands coming up to hold himself and stop him from shaking apart. “You should have said ‘no’ and left me the _fuck_ alone. There’s a reason why the people in town are so superstitious of the fae, but it isn’t because you’re dangerous killing machines. It’s because you’re lying, manipulative assholes.”

He turns away and jogs down the bluebell path, the ringing in his ears cacophonous above the blood pounding in his head. He might be crying, but then again it might just be his eyes watering from the air. He speeds up. Twigs and roots pull at his clothes and he whimpers and twists out of their way, tearing his shirt and pants in his escape. He thinks he might hear Damen’s voice calling for him, but he can’t tell if it’s his name or not.

He’s sprinting by the time his feet hit pavement, and when he’s bathed in the light of the street lamp he turns around to watch the treeline, lungs heaving for breath. Damen had never followed him out of the woods before, but then again everything Laurent knew about him is completely out the window by now. His eyes track the shadows, but no golden-eyed, winged man comes out from between the trees. Laurent almost lets himself relax.

A strong gust of wind blows at him from the depths of the forest, smelling of candles and chopped wood, and with it comes an airborne mass of blue, ringing petals. He shields his eyes from the onslaught, flowers pelting him from every side, and when it’s finally over he uncovers them to see the aftermath: the ruined blossoms litter the sidewalk for blocks on either side, and there is no more bluebell path.


	4. WINTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everything happens a lot so hold on to your horses

Laurent shoves his history books into his bag, ignoring the other juniors packing up and chatting with each other as they head out. He can hear them making plans for the winter break, and he can’t help but feel a little jealous of them for having friends. Real, normal, human friends, and things to do with them. Homes to go back to.

Laurent hasn’t been home in almost two and a half years, now. Auguste and his father were both supportive of his decision to enroll in the one university farthest from their town that accepted him. He didn’t tell them about Damen, but he thinks…. maybe they already knew. His father, certainly, must have had his suspicions.

He probably confirmed them when he left them his mess of a room to clean up. After learning what he now knows about Damen, Laurent trashed just about everything he owned that could possibly be related to the fae. Anything could be ensorcelled. Anything could be malicious. Everything reminded him of _Damen_.

Mostly, Laurent was just angry.

The bluebell jar was the first thing to go, thrown out the window the second Laurent got home from the woods. The books on fae were next, ripped pages and bent hardcovers strewn about his room like ugly confetti. Pinecones and pressed leaves were crushed under Laurent’s heel until they were just bits and pieces. He almost left his room like that for the entire month before he packed up to leave for the university dorms, only bothering to clean up the paper and leaves, if only to make the room livable in the meantime.

He left the house with strict instructions to plant Saint John’s Wort in the garden at the yard, and to hang a horseshoe over the front and back doors. Auguste and father seemed confused but willing to comply, and that was the last time Laurent saw them face to face.

He’s pulled out of his reminiscing by a softly cleared throat. He looks up from where he’s been staring angrily into his backpack into the soft eyes of the TA. Torveld, Laurent recalls his name moments before he opens his mouth.

“Hello, Laurent,” Torveld says, and he sounds as soft as his eyes. “I was wondering, since I saw you didn’t really speak to anyone since you got here, are you holding up alright?”

It’s a strange thing to notice, and to ask about, but Laurent chalks it up to stuff like Facebook broadcasting his lack of ‘friends’ to the world at large. Or, at least, to those who take the time to look him up. “I’m alright,” he replies. “I’m really more of a loner, so it doesn’t bother me.”

“Okay, that’s good, I suppose.” Torveld shuffles his feet a little, looking down at where his hands are held in front of him. “Then, uh, I suppose you wouldn’t be particularly interested in getting drinks tonight, to celebrate the end of the semester.”

“I’m not twenty one, yet.”

“Oh.”

The crestfallen look on Torveld’s face is enough to make Laurent check his phone for the nonexistent notifications before he tucks it into his jacket pocket and says, “You know what, how about coffee, instead? I could use a hot drink.”

They make small talk on their way to the café, Laurent regaling the older man with tales of his brother’s shenanigans, gesticulating exaggeratedly through his thick gloves to get his point across. It feels strange to speak openly with another person, something he hasn’t really done since he left home.

“I know that feeling, about older brothers,” Torveld says, chuckling. He pushes the door to the café open and holds it for Laurent like a gentleman. “Why don’t you find us a place to sit? I’ll go order us some drinks.”

“A latte for me, please,” Laurent asks and shoots him a grateful look over his shoulder, hurrying to the far window-side table before anyone else can take it. He puts his bag on the chair beside him and drapes his jacket over the back of his own. It’s only minutes before Torveld joins him, two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands.

“Here we go,” the man says as he sets the drinks down. “I figured, since we’re probably sitting here for a while, I’d save the environment a bit and get washable cups.”

Laurent chuckles absently, more interested in the drink than the joke. He takes the cup with a muttered ‘thank you’ and brings it to his lips, taking a deep sip while Torveld sits down and puts his own things aside. He burns his tongue, but it’s worth it.

“So,” Torveld says, leaning back into his own chair. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you leave campus, even for breaks and holidays. Why is that?”

Laurent nearly inhales his latte through his nose. Coughing the liquid out of his throat, he sets his cup on the table and wipes his mouth as discreetly as possible. “That’s a rather personal topic to start with, is it not?”

“I suppose it is, but you seem to be the type that appreciates it when people get to the point.”

Fair enough. “There is somebody in town that I would rather not run into, and I take no chances at ever seeing him again by avoiding my home.” Laurent replies, simply.

Torveld leans forward at this, concern drawing his brows together. “Has he hurt you?” he asks. “As your class’ TA, I take everyone’s safety and wellbeing personally.”

Laurent waves his concern away. “No, no, he’s just.” He cuts himself off. Is there any way to really explain the complicated reasons why he doesn’t want to see a particular man? “We have our differences. Do you do this with every student you’re concerned about? I’ll have to commend your teacher for choosing such a vigilant assistant.”

“No, I’m afraid my interest may be slightly less professional than that,” Torveld seems placated by the response and settles back into his chair, a gentle smile crossing his features as he takes a sip from his own cup.

The last time someone took an interest in him in a ‘less professional’ way it hadn’t ended particularly well. Then again, the circumstances were rather extraordinary. Not knowing how to answer to an approach like this, Laurent raises his eyebrows questioningly and pulls a sip from his own cup. The other man seems to take this as an invitation to continue speaking, for which Laurent doesn’t correct him.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of how attractive you are,” Torveld says, just barely stammering. “There are a great many other students who have voiced a similar interest, and I’ve heard from some that you had some choice words to say in regards to their advances.”

Laurent smiles a little viciously at this. He knows exactly who Torveld is referring to, and if Lazar ever tries to ask him out with a cheap pickup line and an offer for a dick pic again, Laurent will have more than just ‘choice words’ to give him.

“I’d like to assure you that, while I may be attracted to you, I fully respect your space and if you would prefer I not approach you in that way I will cease immediately.” Torveld finishes with a gentle smack of his lips and takes another sip from his drink, not quite looking Laurent in the eye.

“Is this a date?” Laurent blurts out, unable to help himself after hearing Torveld’s piece.

The man looks up at him over the rim of his cup. “Would that be alright with you if it was?”

If Laurent were to be honest, he’d say Torveld is rather attractive, himself. He’s kind, so far he’s proven to be respectful, and the gentle way he looks at Laurent seems genuine. Even so, he’s only ever had one ‘date’, so his experience on the matter isn’t much to speak of, and so what constitutes as ‘alright’ or not isn’t quite clear to him yet. Still, it’s worth a shot, right? Slowly, tentatively, Laurent nods.

Torveld offers to walk Laurent back to his dorm, long after they’d finished their cups of coffee. They’ve spoken about a number of things, like Torveld’s research topic for his upcoming thesis, and Laurent’s growing interest in publishing. The staff at the café had to kick them out at the end, already having started closing the store while the pair continued to chat.

It’s been a rather pleasant first date, he admits, and Torveld chatters on about how he’d like a second one, but Laurent can’t seem to bring up the same sentiment. Torveld is nice, and he’s been more than generous this evening, so why can’t Laurent feel any stronger for him?

As they walk in silence, Laurent considers the evening they’d had. It was nice, of course, and free coffee is always a good thing, but can he see Torveld and himself in a relationship? He looks at the taller man out of the corner of his eye, and finds himself thinking of him more as a friend than a lover. The last time Laurent felt strongly for a man, he found out he was basically a creature from his nightmares. Briefly, he wonders if that one experience ruined him for other men as well, before tossing the idea away.

They stop in front of Laurent’s dorm building, huddled together on the steps just before the door. Torveld tilts his head over a bit to look at Laurent under his thick wool hat.

“I had a pleasant evening,” he says. “I hope it was the same for you.”

And with that, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to Laurent’s cheek.

Laurent seizes up, just barely resisting the urge to reach up and wipe his face. Beside him, Torveld tenses.

“Was that not okay?” he asks, worry seeping into his voice.

“I,” Laurent chokes on his words. “I’m okay with it, but…” He trails off and looks up at Torveld, frowning slightly. “I had a great evening, really, Torveld, but I don’t… I don’t think I can return your feelings.”

The man seems to wilt, drawing into himself while still putting on a polite smile, tight as it is. “I understand, Laurent. I told you, if you wished to reject my advances, I-”

“I’m sorry. I really am,” Laurent hesitantly cuts him off, his gloved hands wringing nervously. He has to explain, somehow. “I _want_ to return your feelings. I do. You’re a good man, and anyone would be incredibly lucky to have you, but I don’t know if I can feel more toward you than friendship. You deserve more than,” he makes a vague gesture at himself. “Than to give your affection to a man who doesn’t feel the same way.”

“I see.” Torveld mutters and takes a step away from Laurent. He hovers on the stairs, then descends them, not looking up from the ground. He makes a move to walk away into the night, but he turns around with a jerky movement and flashes Laurent an honest smile. “I’m glad to be your first friend here, then. Have a good evening, Laurent.”

Laurent’s eyes linger on the back of Torveld’s coat as he leaves, only just remembering to take out his keys and unlocking the door, letting himself inside hastily. He barely sees his journey up the staircase, passing a few noisier rooms on his way down the hall, and eventually he opens up his own room and steps inside.

His roommate, Erasmus, is on the floor, on his stomach, with books strewn around him. It’s a complete warzone, in Laurent’s opinion, but he knows the sophomore is quite nervous about his term paper. His honeyed curls poke out in different directions, a testament to him pulling at his hair all day. Laurent picks his way over the open pages and flops into his own bed with a tired sigh.

“Did you have a nice day?” Erasmus asks, glancing up at Laurent briefly before going back to staring at his books as though he might intimidate them into giving him their knowledge. He isn’t very intimidating to begin with, but Laurent won’t tell him that.

“I did. How was yours?”

“Busy.” Erasmus gives him a long-suffering sigh. “This paper’s due at the end of the week and I’m only half done! I don’t know why I thought an analysis of the Cold War would be an easy topic.”

Laurent opens his mouth, and then closes it with a frown, running his eyes subtly over Erasmus’ slim form. He starts again after thinking on his next words carefully. “My history TA is pretty good with wartime things, if you’d like to contact him for some last minute advice.”

Erasmus sits bolt upright, fixing Laurent with owlish eyes. “I’ll take any help I can get, thank you!”

Laurent gives him Torveld’s number, only feeling slightly guilty. Whatever may be will be, he tells himself, and he dresses himself in pyjamas and heads to bed.

* * *

He gets the call about halfway into the winter break, a few days before Christmas. He can’t say he’d been expecting it, but somehow he feels he probably knew something like this was going to happen.

“Auguste, please, say that again?” Laurent whispers into the receiver, holding his phone with both hands.

Auguste’s voice crackles in through the speaker. “Papa’s in the hospital. The doctors say it’s just really bad pneumonia, and they’re giving him some antibiotics now. I just wanted you to know, so that you don’t call the house phone on Christmas.”

He hadn’t been home for two winters, and of course the distance hurt him, but Laurent made sure to call for every holiday. Every birthday. Every occasion, no matter how small. Of course Auguste wouldn’t want him to call the house phone this year, not when nobody would be around to pick up.

“How bad is it?” He asks, though he isn’t sure he really wants to know.

“Well, his asthma was acting up a lot these past few seasons,” Auguste explains, and Laurent nods even though he knows Auguste can’t see him. “And his age puts him at higher risk, but he’s looking at a full recovery after about a week or so of treatment. They told me that he’s going to be home for New Years.”

Laurent sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Is the asthma really bad enough to make him at risk like that?”

“Yeah, he could barely do stuff this year without coughing all the time, especially this fall.” Auguste replies, sounding frustrated. “Oh yeah, we couldn’t keep up your garden, so the flowers in the yard kind of died once the frost hit. You’ll have to wait until spring if you want us to plant some more.”

The flowers died. Suddenly, that’s all Laurent can think about. “Okay,” he says into the phone. “I’ll come down and visit as soon as I can. We can have Christmas together this year, maybe it’ll make Papa feel better.”

“Okay, that sounds nice. We’ll see each other soon then!”

“Bye,” he hangs up and clenches his fingers around the phone. His flowers died, the ones he’d told Auguste to plant before he left for university. Saint John’s Wort, gorgeous little golden flowers with the added bonus of warding off malevolent magic. Such as fae magic.

There can only be one explanation for the decline of his father’s health, Laurent reasons. The man single-handedly raised two, admittedly difficult, sons with no help, worked a full time job, and maintained his household without a single health issue before. His asthma had been under control, he has inhalers to help manage the inflammation. No, there must be a nonhuman explanation for his illness.

And what a coincidence that Laurent happens to know of a certain nonhuman whom he’d rejected, and likely angered rather badly. Of course Damen would want his revenge on Laurent for rejecting him. The fae are rarely forgiving, no matter how slight the perceived injury.

It would explain, as well, why Laurent can’t seem to look at another man with more feelings than friendship, as much as he wants to. The fae had said so himself: those who are name-bound cannot be bound to another. Damen must have beguiled him so deeply that he cannot feel for anyone else than him.

The fae holds both Laurent’s emotions, and his father’s health, in his terrible, clawed hands. He _did_ say that name-bonds are only breakable by death.

Laurent is going home, and he knows what he must do.

* * *

The moment the plane touches the tarmac, Laurent is dialing Auguste’s cellphone. He waits patiently for the ringing to stop as he gathers his carry-on, the only bag he’d brought with him, and shuffles out the door with the rest of the passengers.

Auguste answers the second time Laurent calls him, voice hushed in the late hour. “Laurent? Are you in town now?”

“We just landed not too long ago,” Laurent tells him, standing on the curb just outside the airport. He waves into the street, watching as a cab slows and pulls up beside him. “I’m coming right over to see you and Papa. Which hospital is it again?”

“Santa Cabrini, but visitations are closing in a bit. Are you going to make it?”

“Absolutely.” He puts his bag beside him in the backseat, covering the receiver to give the driver the hospital’s address before returning his attention to Auguste. “I’ll be there soon, okay? I have a few little things to give you, nothing special.”

“Well, don’t give them to us now!” Auguste’s laughter rings through the speaker, drawing a familiar smile out of Laurent. “Wait at least until Christmas. We’ll give you your present then, too.”

Laurent sighs fondly. “I told you I didn’t want anything,” he protests, futile in the face of Auguste’s determination.

“No arguments! When Papa heard you were flying here for Christmas he _insisted_ I go out immediately and get you something. You wouldn’t deny a sick man his dying wish, would you?”

“He’s not dying, though.”

“Thank god he isn’t. We’ll see you soon, Lau.”

He hands up and leans back into the stale-smelling upholstery of the taxi, looking out the window to watch the lampposts flicker alight in the dusk. Their burnt copper glow against the inside of his eyelids when he blinks forces him to turn his head away.

Laurent brings his carry-on with him into the hospital. Some of the nurses look at him strangely, and he knows he must be a sight: jetlagged and dragging his feet, still wearing clothes from yesterday, dragging a small bulging luggage behind him. He doesn’t care, he’s not here for them anyway. He comes up to the room number that Auguste texted him earlier, and stops. He takes in a deep breath and then steps inside.

It’s Papa who sees him first, brightening sweetly and suddenly he’s ten years younger and Laurent is coming home after getting his first test result of fifth grade and the three of them are already celebrating his perfect score. Laurent can almost smell the cookies he’d baked that day, and distinctly remembers Auguste eating most of them even if they weren’t for him anyway.

“Laurent,” he says, and it’s wheezing despite the happy glow in his cheeks. Laurent hurries to the side of his bed so he won’t have to speak too loudly. Beside him, Auguste moves a little to give him a better spot. “My baby boy, it’s been so long! Didn’t he grow up, Auguste? He’s all grown up now!”

“I’m the same size I was when I left,” Laurent smiles a little wryly and takes one of his hands, an IV drip taped to the back of it. “And I’m sorry, for not visiting more. I was so busy with school and everything, I should have made time to come home.”

“Nonsense, you’ve been working hard these past few years,” Auguste interjects, and Papa nods in agreement. “You always stay in touch, and we know you’ve been doing well in your classes. That’s all we want, you can come home as much as you’d like after you get your bach’.”

“Still,” Laurent frowns, and before he can berate himself further Papa begins regaling him with all sorts of stories and complaints he has, mostly about the other folks in town, with Auguste backing up his more ridiculous claims. Surely the LaMontagne family down the street hasn’t been stealing the decorative porch stones all across the neighborhood, but the way Papa tells it they’ve become true landscaping kleptomaniacs. If looks could kill, Laurent thinks his father might become a serial killer.

It’s not their home, or their kitchen table, and they’re not gathered for supper, but it’s familiar and Laurent feels almost as though he’d never been gone.

Auguste drives himself and Laurent home after the visitation hours end, and the car ride is blessedly quiet. Even when they pull into the driveway, neither of them speak until the front door closes behind them.

“We’re glad you came to visit, Lau,” he says, and wraps his arms around Laurent in a hug, squeezing unbearably tight. Laurent is almost certain he can hear his ribs creak. “We missed you so much!”

“Stop, I c- can’t breathe-” Laurent struggles to free himself, nearly kicking Auguste’s shins out from under him. “This is why I never visited! I don’t want to die strangled!”

“Okay, okay,” Auguste finally relents, letting Laurent go and rubbing the top of his head vigorously until his blond hair sticks up wildly. “Go get some sleep, I’m sure you had a long past couple of days, huh? It’s Christmas eve tomorrow, and Papa told me he plans to spend all of it watching those Hallmark holiday specials with us, so you’re gonna need your rest.”

Laurent groans at the thought of watching back to back Christmas specials, already cringing at the terrible plot and mediocre cinematography, but if their father would be happy then he’d make that sacrifice willingly.

Auguste leaves him to his own devices, heading to the kitchen. Laurent pads down the familiar hallway until he reaches his room. His hand hovers over the doorknob, the memory of the warzone he’d left it as floating to the forefront, but when he opens it the room is pristine. As if he’d never destroyed it in the first place.

His bed is crisp, one corner of the comforter undone and a folded pair of pyjamas resting on the pillow. He sits down on the mattress with a faint smile. Auguste must have been very eager for his return. He glances out his window briefly, and the bare yard reminds him of his second order of business.

After Christmas, he tells himself. After Christmas, he’ll go back to the woods.

* * *

“Oh, Laurent, this is wonderful!” Papa exclaims as he pulls the thick, patterned sweater out of the shiny gift bag Laurent had given him earlier. “And my favourite colours too! You’ll have to help me put it on after.”

“Of course, Papa,” Laurent says, seated at the end of the hospital bed.

Auguste already opened his own gift earlier, a beautiful ceramic travel mug and some expensive loose-leaf tea Laurent happened to see for sale at the airport. He’s gone downstairs to the hospital cafeteria to make himself a cup to try it out, leaving Laurent and their father alone for a few minutes while it brews.

Papa smooths the sweater over his lap and coos at the design, a mixture of paisley and christmas themes. Laurent saw the hideous thing at the airport as well and _knew_ he had to get it. The look on his father’s face is worth the exorbitant price it cost.

Laurent is distracted for a moment and doesn’t notice when Papa looks up at him with a fond smile. “We’re so glad you’re home for the holidays, Lolo.” He says, causing Laurent to glance up at him.

“I’m glad I’m back, too,” Laurent nods, the gift he’d been given this morning in his hands; a small, wrapped box. Nothing indicates what might be inside. “I missed having Christmas with you and Auguste.”

“We barely had time to say goodbye before you were gone, off to university,” Papa grins and shakes his head at Laurent’s attempts at apologies. “We knew something…. happened,” it’s the first time he’s ever admitted to knowing. “It was better if you left. We were okay, I promise, and your flowers and horseshoes were good ideas.”

“Still,” Laurent hesitates, fingers digging slight dents in the box. “I could have visited, sometimes. I don’t know.”

Papa puts a hand on his knee and squeezes. “After you left, Lolo, we found something,” Papa murmurs, just low enough for Laurent to hear. “On the back porch.”

“... What was it?” Laurent asks, frowning. A threat? A curse? A pile of bluebell flowers? Possibilities run through his mind without his permission, each more terrifying than the last.

“It was your wireless speaker. The blue one from your room. Auguste never found it after he cleaned up in there, so we thought it was lost.”

“Oh.”

That’s even worse than he’d thought. Damen, personally, knows where he lives. He knows where Auguste and Papa live. Any other fae seeking general retribution would be preferable to the one that Laurent angered, specifically.

“It was broken,” Papa continues, as if it’s minor news to have tangible proof of Damen’s presence show up on his doorstep. “But it was held together with tree sap and fibers. It came from the woods, didn’t it?”

Laurent can only nod, and Papa’s eyes close as he sighs.

“It’s as we feared, then,” he looks back up at Laurent seriously. “Your brother and I suspected, when you were small, that your friend might not be human.”

“You never said anything,” Laurent accuses, but it comes out tired.

“No. You’re a smart boy, Lolo, what do you think you would have done if we mentioned our… Misgivings, about your friend in the woods?”

“I… I would have asked him if it were true,” Laurent states. It’s a reasonable thing to ask, to seek reassurance on.

“And your friend would not have been able to lie,” Papa explains. “He would have admitted he is fae, and your brother and I could not predict how you might have reacted. You were just a boy, you might have said- or done- something to anger him and put yourself in danger. Fae are a secretive folk, as you’ve read in your books. They would not have been pleased if they found out you knew.”

“So you let me be _friends,_ ” Laurent spits the word like poison. “With one of the monsters you always warned us against? We have _rules_ , even, that we are all taught. Does everybody in town know fae truly exist? And nobody thought to stop me?”

“You would not have let us stop you,” Papa chuckles, amused despite himself. “Don’t think I didn’t know about that night you snuck out. You were okay, even though we worried. As long as you came home, that’s what mattered to us.”

Papa reclines on the bed and laughs deeper, shaking his head. “Your mother was the same, you know. She loved me, and Auguste, and you, very deeply. But she always loved the woods more. You remind me of her quite a bit.”

Laurent frowns, shaken by this sudden new information. “You never speak of Mama,” he says, not accusingly. “You told me a long time ago that she was sick, and passed away when I was a baby.”

“She _was_ sick. Homesick, she called it,” Papa tells him. He holds Laurent’s gaze seriously. “She was human, but she always believed she belonged to the woods. It was only too late when your brother and I found out she’d run away. Stolen, perhaps, or maybe she went on her own. We told people she passed away, but honestly we just never knew.”

Laurent stares at the floor uncomprehending. Why was he never told of this? He would have been so much more careful, more suspicious. If he’d only known…

“We didn’t want to fill your head with horror stories, Lolo,” Papa gently eases Laurent’s clenched fists open and holds them in his own. “You were a baby, you didn’t need to know that there were monsters in the woods. Not at first. We thought it would serve you better to let you have your childhood, have fun and play. We gave you books and told you the rules, to prepare you just in case, but we gave you and your friend the benefit of the doubt for a very long time.”

“But what now? You must already know, then, that I finally angered my- the fae.” Laurent lets his father rub the backs of his hands, easing the tension slightly. “What am I supposed to do about that? The rules never said.”

Papa reaches over and taps the gift Laurent has in his lap. At the prompt, he slowly begins to unwrap the glittery paper from around it until the plain brown box is bare. Laurent glances at his father briefly, then prys the lid off.

A sleek, black dagger sits on red silk inside the box. The wooden handle is wrapped tightly in tan leather, runed patterns embossed into it, and the pommel is sanded smooth. The blade is sharp on both sides, he can tell even without testing the edge with his thumb, the way Papa would test his kitchen knives. Very faintly, the sharp smell of iron drifts up from the box.

“You ask me what you do when you anger a fae?” Papa repeats, pointing at the dagger. “You don’t miss, is what you do. I know it’s why you came home, this year. No, you know I’m right,” he silences Laurent’s half-hearted protests at being called out. Laurent has the mind to be at least a little ashamed that his primary motivation to return wasn’t to visit family. “Auguste and I, we understand. Your mother made her decision, to choose the woods, and now you can make yours as well. But you’ll have to be fast, you’ll only get one chance. He won’t let you try again.”

Laurent swallows audibly, barely noticing Auguste’s return. The smell of holiday tea fills the small hospital room, and it should be warm and festive, but Laurent is still staring at the knife and only feels cold.

* * *

The day after Christmas comes sooner than Laurent anticipated. The iron dagger is hidden in the deep pockets of his winter jacket, and his fingers curl around the handle loosely, running his fingertips over the ridges of the leather wrapping.

He paces the sidewalk that marks the end of the forest, eyeing the bare trees suspiciously. He reluctantly steps one foot into the untouched snow, then the other, until he’s in the woods. The skeleton branches barely hide him from the winter sun, reflecting on the snow and ice below.

He’ll admit that he has close to no recollection of which way to go, grown used to having his path marked clearly for him to follow. Without the bluebells to guide him, the way to the clearing, and to Damen, is lost to him.

He can’t give up. Not when his father’s health is potentially on the line. He takes a breath, picks a direction further into the trees, and begins to walk.

Every tree trunk sort of blends into each other, the longer Laurent walks. With no defining features he’d fear he might be wandering in circles, if not for the lack of footprints as he continues on. He glances behind himself every so often, checking to make sure that the footprints he _has_ made haven’t been blown away or erased. Relief floods him when he sees his own footprints pressed into the snow; at the very least, he can still find his way out.

Soon the sun begins its slow descent downward, casting growing shadows on the white ground below. Laurent considers turning around and resuming his search tomorrow, when something draws his attention.

He moves his foot slightly and the sound comes again. Not quite a bell, no. More like the tinkling sound of shattered glass being disturbed from its rest. He looks down and brushes the inches of snow away with the side of his boot until he can see it peeking through the ice and grass that’s grown over it. A single bluebell plant. The flowers are a dry, dull, brownish-grey, and when Laurent pushes them they ring ugly and broken.

He kneels down beside the space he cleared, brushing more snow away with his hand and revealing more half-dead bluebells all around him. His memory floods with the sight of the ringing flowers and he looks to his left, where he knows instinctively the path leads. He rises to his feet and brushes the powder from his knees, leading down the familiar path that only he, and Damen, knows.

Laurent keeps his eyes on the ground, pushing snow out of his way with the toes of his boots as he searches for the dried flowers. They’re few and far between, a stark difference from the river of blossoms they used to be, and most of the ones he finds are dead or dying. The frost must have killed them, he thinks, but he remembers the wave of bluebells that followed him out of the woods when Damen must have tried to cut all ties with him as well.

Barely noticeable, but as he continues his search he begins to find flowers that are in better condition, some bluer than others, and some ringing a little more like the way they used to when he was younger.

He distantly registers that there’s less snow to push through, too.

  


He stops in his tracks when his feet find the end of the snow, and he stands between two golden-leafed trees in wonder at the scene before him: despite it being late december and having knee-deep snow almost everywhere else, Laurent finds himself hesitating on the edge of a snapshot taken right out of mid-autumn.

Russet and brown mottles the forest floor, even still drifting down from the trees above, and a scattered handful of blue blossoms reach out through the leaves and long grasses. Laurent reaches out and plucks a yellow leaf off of a low-hanging branch, surprised to find it real between his fingers. He almost expects it to fade away as an illusion.

This can only be fae magic. Tightening his grip on the dagger in his pocket, Laurent continues onward.

Instead of snow, he shuffles through the fallen leaves to find the bluebells. He doesn’t have much of a choice, as much as he’d rather avoid any fae-things. The weather grows warmer around him, the air no longer grating against his skin, and he unzips his jacket gratefully. His scarf trails behind him now that it isn’t trapped behind the zipper, and he turns around every few seconds to tug it off of stray twigs.

  
  
  


The bluebells ring sweeter the further Laurent walks. They push through the leaves and sway in the light breeze, like they’re beckoning him onward. Around him, the trees turn from golden to lush and green. The thick ferns on either side of him rustle as he walks past, syncopated with the sound of his breathing.

The heat forces Laurent to remove his jacket. He takes the iron dagger out of his pocket setting it down on the ground between his feet as he slips his jacket off of his shoulders and hangs it over his left arm, then retrieves the knife to hold it in his left hand, hidden in the folds of the coat.

He presses on. The summery weather is a jarring difference from the winter in town, and he wonders if the lake he’s seeing through the trees is a hallucination or not. There’s no buzzing or birdsong, just the sound of Laurent making his way through the woods on his own and the faint ringing of bells.

  
  
  
  


Blossoms start showing between the leaves, where only a few feet behind him there were ripe fruits. The air smells sweet and pollen tickles Laurent’s nose with each breath. There are bluebells at every turn he takes, now, like the path was before he knew Damen was fae.

He passes by the fallen tree where Damen had shown him the ‘unicorn’, perched just over the upturned roots with skin like bark and a mane of damp moss. Laurent wonders, for the first time since then, if the unicorn had also been real. If fae exist, it can’t be _so_ much of a logic leap, after all.

He’s close, now. The air tingles with unnatural force, and Laurent’s teeth grind at the sensation. How had he never noticed, before, when he spent all his time in the forest so close to a fae? Perhaps the years he’d spent away were good to resensitize him to the feeling of something supernatural. Or perhaps Damen has simply hidden it very well. He walks through the magic that clings to the woods like a veil, determined to finish this before he can be spellbound again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


At the end of such a long walk, much longer than he remembered it being, it’s almost anticlimactic to Laurent when he steps into the clearing and sees the wooden cabin sitting at the far end. It rises out of the long grasses and thickets of clovers that surround it. He approaches it warily, now that he knows what it’s inhabitant really is. He’s almost halfway to the front door when it swings open slowly.

The fae, himself, peers with glowing eyes out from the crack between the door and the frame, surprise and wariness of his own colouring his features. Laurent can’t see the rest of him, but somehow he knows the human illusion is not in place. The arced horns rest against the door where Damen leans on it, and his moth wings rustle behind him like shadows, just out of sight.

“Laurent?” Damen asks, his voice carrying in the emptiness between them.

The familiarity with which he says Laurent’s name is enough to make him stop in his tracks, staring wide-eyed at the fae with trepidation.

“... It’s you, isn’t it?” the door opens further and fully reveals Damen standing behind it. He looks the same as he did in Laurent’s memory from nearly four years ago. It’s disconcerting, and his words dry up in his throat. Disbelief bleeds into the fae’s voice as he continues: “You’re really here. I almost thought you were- Did you want to come inside? When I heard the bells I started making some tea, just in case…”

Unable to speak, Laurent only nods and follows Damen into the cabin.

* * *

He keeps the jacket covering his left arm, hiding the knife from view, and walks behind Damen as he shuffles toward the center room. It’s changed a bit since Laurent had last seen it, and a black steel wood-burning stove is tucked into a far corner, with a bronze kettle whistling on it. Damen moves the kettle to the table, resting it on top of a ratty dishtowel. There are even different woven placemats on the table, and assorted cushions on the chairs and couch. It all looks strangely modern, in contrast to the white chiton Damen is wearing.

“Where did you get all this?” Laurent asks, curiosity getting the better of him. “I didn’t know you could… You know, with the _human_ town, and everything.”

“Oh,” Damen looks around, as if noticing the new additions for the first time. “Most of it comes from the dump, actually. I spent a lot of time cleaning and fixing it up so it can be reused.”

That explains why nothing matches, at least. Laurent narrows his eyes and levels Damen with a hard stare, wrinkling his nose despite himself at the thought of Damen rooting through garbage to decorate their- _his_ house. “Is this even sanitary?”

“Probably. I cleaned everything very thoroughly.”

Laurent stands on the other side of the table as Damen pours two cups of steaming tea. The wings on his back twitch every so often, a reminder of what he really is, what he no longer chooses to conceal from Laurent. Still, even unhidden as he is, he could almost pass for human. He picks up a finished cup while Laurent is deep in thought, and rounds the table slowly to bringing it to him. Under the jacket, Laurent’s grip tightens on the dagger.

When the fae leans over to put the cup on the placemat closest to Laurent, he throws the jacket off and lunges blade-first. There’s a split second of hesitation before Damen spots the dagger. His eyes flash bright gold and then he’s reeling backward, just out of reach of Laurent’s swing. _Fuck_.

He makes another pass, bringing the dagger down in a sharp arc. The tip of it catches the skin of Damen’s forearm when the fae makes an attempt to block, and an awful crackling sound erupts from the open wound. Laurent hesitates a moment too long, and watches in horror as it bleeds a dull, grey powder. _Ashes_. They float upward before dissipating, and the cut sizzles like burning oil. The tea spills over the table top and onto the floor, having been knocked over in the commotion. Laurent steps over the mess and advances on the fae.

Damen backs away slowly, his hands in front of himself as if it might protect him from Laurent’s knife. “This isn’t what I was hoping for,” he laughs, high-pitched and slightly frantic. “But, honestly, I probably should’ve seen this coming.”

“You shouldn’t have been hoping for _anything_ ,” Laurent shouts, adjusting his grip on the dagger. The blade radiates heat, white on the edge that cut into Damen’s skin. “Not since you lied to me _thirteen years ago!_ ”

“I told you I didn’t lie-”

“Shut up!” Laurent dives at him with the blade bared, and Damen’s movements are too slow, too hesitant, and he sees his opening. He takes it.

“Laurent, stop!”

His body seizes and he’s suspended in air, the point of the dagger just inches from Damen’s throat. He meets Damen’s eyes, and they flash bright gold in the low light. Damen licks his lips nervously and leans away from Laurent’s reach, while Laurent’s harsh breathing is the only movement in the cabin. The smell of ashes fills his mouth.

“What did you do to me? Let me go!” Laurent demands, straining against the prickling feeling in his veins.

Damen only shakes his head. “I can’t do that, not if I want to live.”

Laurent’s teeth grind. He pushes into the tingling feeling, buying himself a centimeter or two of distance, but still not close enough to cut. He lets out a snarl, forcing the dagger into the distance between them but Damen slips out of his reach.

“Son of a bitch,” he watches out of the corner of his eye as the fae moves around to place furniture between them. “It wasn’t enough for you to manipulate me, you had to go after my father, too? My _family_ , you lying fuck!”

“What- what are you talking about? What happened to your father?” The confusion on Damen’s face is almost believable. Almost.

“As if you don’t know,” Laurent sneers, knuckles white around the hilt of the knife. He pushes past the static and completes his downward swing on empty air with a frustrated noise. He recovers quickly, but Damen is already on the other side of the table, primed to dodge now that he knows Laurent is armed.

Damen squints, frowning as he looks away, thinking hard. “Am I supposed to know?” He asks. Laurent is tempted to throw the knife at him.

“It’s your fault to begin with!”

“How is it my fault?! I’ve never even _seen_ your dad, before!”

That brings Laurent up short. Fae cannot lie, it’s not in their nature, everybody knows that. It’s the one thing the rules concedes about them.

“What about the speaker?” Laurent presses, edging around the table with the dagger pointed at Damen, who mirrors the movement in the opposite direction, away from him.

“Your little sound machine?” He shrugs helplessly. “I tried to fix it, but I don’t think I did a great job. We don’t mix well with modern technologies.”

“You knew where I lived!”

Damen makes a teetering motion with his hand. “Sort of. I knew you’ve been to that house often and I sort of guessed you’d be there a lot? I’m not allowed to approach a place I haven’t been invited to, if it already belongs to someone else.”

“How did you get it on our doorstep then? Our fence is iron,” Laurent demands as his shoulders drop, the dagger pointing downward in his inattention.

“I had some random human girl go put it there when she walked by the woods,” Damen says, eyes fixed on the lowered hand. “Laurent, drop the knife.”

Static runs down his arm, jolting his hand open against his will, and Laurent drops the knife. He tries to catch it, or at least pick it up, but he’s frozen once more as Damen tacks on a ‘Stop!’ to the end of his sentence.

“Let me go.” He says harshly, willing Damen to combust as the fae comes around the table and picks up the dagger, the iron beginning to glow in close proximity to him. When the fae straightens, he’s closer to Laurent than Laurent would personally like.

“I’m sorry I’m using your name,” Damen stresses the word like it’s significant. “You’re not giving me much of a choice.”

He takes a step closer and Laurent can’t help the tenseness that runs through him like a shiver. Up close, he can see the things distance had softened; the way Damen’s eyes are uncannily bright, too orange... how his teeth are sharper than most, claws where blunt nails should be… The slight point to his ears as they peek through the thick curls… Horns twisted over his head like a dangerous crown… His movements are too deliberate and smooth, not a single hesitation, nothing human about it.

He looks exactly like the monster he’s been warned about. Laurent’s heart rate doubles and he fights down the urge to gulp.

“Don’t be afraid,” Damen says even as his faelike features are brought into stark relief, the proximity to iron and runes weakening his illusionary magic. Slowly, the ashen cut on his arm seals itself before Laurent’s eyes. “I swear I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What about my father, then? He was just free game to you?” Laurent hisses, proud of the control over his voice. “He got sick right after the Saint John’s Wort in our garden died. That’s not a coincidence, _Damen_.”

The fae shakes his head slowly, mahogany horns barely overbalancing the movement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, really. You _know_ me, Laurent. Do you really think I’d do something to hurt you like that?”

Laurent clenches his jaw and stares stubbornly ahead, unable to look him directly in the eye. It’s a terrible thing, the way Damen looks otherworldly and utterly arresting, the beauty that the fae are famed for using against humans’ better judgement. Laurent won’t be swayed.

“Humans just get sick sometimes, don’t they?” Damen continues, as if trying to offer comfort. “These kinds of things just happen, without magic or curses.”

“Not like this, they don’t!” Laurent exclaims, a growl on the end of his words. “People don’t just go to the hospital for asthma and _pneumonia_. Don’t think I didn’t notice it’s been just under three years since we last saw each other. We both know threes mean something.”

Damen makes a noise of exasperation. “Yes, in magic in general. It doesn’t mean anything specific to _me_ , and I certainly wouldn’t wait _three years_ if I wanted to hurt someone.”

“That doesn’t really inspire confidence in me.”

“I didn’t cause your father’s illness, no matter how much you think so,” Damen huffs, drawing away from Laurent and heading to the other side of the table again, staring forlornly at the knife in his hand. “You were really going to kill me for that?”

“After having you remove the curse first,” Laurent admits through gritted teeth.

“That’d be pretty hard to do, since I didn’t curse him.” Damen points out, and if looks could kill the fae would be a scorch mark on the ground. A thought comes to Laurent, suddenly, as he remembers something he’d been told many seasons ago. The power of names can go both ways.

“Damen, let me go,” he says, mustering up all the authority he can manage. The fae looks surprised and slightly hesitant, but shakes his head.

“You’re going to attack me again if I do that,” he replies.

“I don’t even have a knife,” Laurent points out, eyes flicking to his empty hands. Why isn’t it working? “Just let me go, Damen.”

“I actually _just_ told you why I can’t,” Damen frowns at him, crossing his arms, annoyed.

Laurent curses loudly, surprising the fae. “So you lied to me about this too? Damn it, I can’t believe- out of everything. You must be the world’s worst fae to be lying this much, asshole!”

“About what?!” Damen squares his shoulders, indignant. He squeezes his arms tighter around himself, barely noticing as the knife in his hand comes dangerously close to burning a line across the meat of his bicep.

“Your name!”

“My-” The fae slumps like a puppet whose strings have been cut. “You’re trying to use my name to get me to let you go?” The way he says it is not a question.

“Don’t act like you’re better than me,” Laurent raves. “You knew my name for ten damn years before you told me, and you know full well that you could have held that over me any way you wanted to and I would have never known about it.” The pricking under his skin lessens slightly, enough for Laurent to gesticulate angrily with his hands. “How would I know if you- maybe you commanded me by my name to, I don’t know, keep coming to the woods or something. And- and what’s to say you didn’t use my name to force me to-”

“Damianos.”

Laurent’s rant is cut short by the interruption, and he stares at the fae blankly as he tries to process what’s been said.

“Damianos,” Damen repeats, slower this time. “That’s my full name. And I- I want you to know that I never used your name to force you to do anything. Before today, I mean,” he gestures to Laurent’s still-frozen form.

“Damianos,” Laurent tries the name, and he can already feel the muted energy in the word rolling on his tongue. “Let me go.”

With that, the static suspension releases him, and Laurent nearly topples to the floor. Hastily he straightens and shakes out his arms, trying to dispel the residual feeling of magic on his skin. Then he advances.

“We’re even, now,” Damen tries, a shaky smile belying his nervousness. Behind him, his wings flare and curl around him defensively. His knuckles whiten as he tenses with every step Laurent takes toward him, but not fleeing. “I don’t know what else you could want from me.”

“I want,” Laurent says, haltingly. “for my father to get well, and come home from the hospital. I want you to leave me and my family alone, to not take out your anger toward me on them. I want to have had a normal childhood, with normal human friends, and to not have been the target of bullying because I was that weirdo that kept disappearing into the woods for days.”

“I tried to make the timeflow here as close to the human world as possible,” Damen protests. He uncrosses his arms but holds himself warily still. “I worked really hard to speed it up, to make sure it was always the same for you on both sides.”

“I want to know what it’s like to make friends and be social,” Laurent continues, shaking his head. “I wish I had high school romances and went out and had teenage drama like everyone else.”

“But weren’t we friends?”

“There’s a man at my university.” Laurent states, and the abrupt shift in conversation visibly takes Damen off-guard. “He’s sweet and generous, and he took me out for coffee for the end of the semester.”

Damen has no right to look as jealous as he does, lips slightly pursed and looking away from Laurent as he continues to step forward, toward him.

“I want to have felt something for him. I want to have given him a chance,” Laurent’s voice turns bitter. “But even miles away, on a date with someone else, I could only compare it to you. I can’t feel anything for _anything_ , or anyone, except you.”

“I don’t control that,” Damen says, but Laurent cuts him off by stepping into the fae’s personal space, fixing him with a glare. At the proximity, Damen raises the smoking dagger over his head, out of Laurent’s reach.

“It’s the _bond_ ,” Laurent hisses, and Damen takes offense.

“That’s not how name-bonds work!”

“That’s exactly how it works!” Laurent points directly in Damen’s face rudely. “The fact of the matter is, because of your stupid fae magic things, you _own_ a part of me! You’re holding me back from living a normal, happy human life, because part of me is always going to be here with you. No matter how much I want to feel differently, no matter how mad I am or how much I want to forget, I only ever think about _you._ ”

Damen deflates like a popped balloon. “This isn’t just about your father, is it?” he has the nerve to ask, as if he’s just noticed.

Laurent sucks in a breath through his teeth. “It is, partially. But it’s also about me.”

Neither of them say anything further. What can be said? In the tense silence Laurent lowers his hand and they stand there, inches from each other, at a stalemate. Somewhere far away, a clock ticks slowly forward.

“I,” Damen says eventually, looking frustrated and sad all at once, “don’t know what you want me to do, then.”

“You didn’t curse my father?” Laurent demands, more to be sure than anything else. When Damen nods, he grumbles. “What about someone from your court, who might be angry at me for- For fae-things, I don’t know.”

“I’m…” Damen trails off awkwardly just as he begins. “Not part of my father’s court anymore, technically…”

“What?”

“You _are_ my court, now.” The fae explains, somewhat distracted by the knife in his hand. From Laurent’s point of view, his hand is beginning to redden from the heat seeping through the leather of the handle, and a faint hissing noise emits from the closed fingers. “If a fae takes on a partner, they split off from their parent court.“

“I’ve read.” Laurent states, frowning. He takes a half-step back and looks at Damen, calculating. “You have no ties to your… Your father’s court? Nobody who would want to avenge you for any reason?”

“If you’re asking if someone I know cursed your father, I can guarantee that’s not the case. Nobody else besides myself, my brother, and my father know of you, and neither of them are particularly keen on meddling in human business.”

“That’s not what I-” Laurent clips, trying to formulate the words in his head. “You asked me what I wanted.”

“I did,” Damen replies, wary.

“I want to live my human life. Get a job, fall in love, buy a house.” Laurent breaths are measured. “Maybe adopt children if my husband wants. I can’t have that if I’m bound to you.”

“The name-bond doesn’t control emotions. You’re more than welcome to do whatever you please,” the fae shakes his head and offers a one-shouldered shrug, sounding a little frantic. “It’s magical in nature, only.”

“You told me you didn’t bewitch me or my emotions, but you’re the only one taking space in me and I can’t get you out. I’ve tried, for almost four years.”

“This is really sounding like more of a _‘you’_ problem-”

“I want you to break the bond.”

The fae’s mouth shuts with an audible _click!_ After a few moments his mouth opens and closes a few times, increasingly distressed. “Laurent, you know the name-bond can only be broken if one of us dies,” he tries to reason, stretching an inch or so higher as though distance from the knife might reduce the chances of Laurent grabbing it.

“You heard me,” Laurent says forcefully. “Damianos, break the bond.”

The effect is instantaneous. Damen seizes up, but no resistance lingers in his eyes; only resignation and discomfort. The fae slowly brings his arm back down, the dagger smoking and his hand burned from holding it. His palm is beginning to look ashen. Laurent watches in disturbed fascination as he turns the blade around and aims it at his own chest, trembling badly. He stops, holding the knife there without moving for a long, silent while, then hesitantly looks up at Laurent.

“I…”

“That was an order, Damen.” Laurent moves forward, where Damen jerks back. He can’t explain why that hurts him.

“I know! I have to, now. I _have_ to. I’m just…” Damen tears his gaze away, to look at the dagger in his burning, shaking hand. “Can… Can you do it for me? I’m scared.”

Well, Laurent had no complaints about doing this earlier.

Laurent’s hands come up slowly to grasp the hilt, and it all but slips from Damen’s fingers as he takes it. It’s cold to the touch. Damen’s hand is covered with ashes, grey flakes float up and around them as he drops his arms to his sides. Laurent brings the point of the dagger to the center of the fae’s chest, one hand around the hilt and the other braced against the pommel. He adjusts his stance and takes a tight breath.

The tip of the knife digs in, bleeding ash where the skin breaks around it. A drop of sweat run down the length of his spine. Damen’s wings curl around the two of them, a seemingly unconscious movement of self comfort on the fae’s part.

“Nothing to say?” He asks, forcing levity. He’s getting what he wants, after all.

> by [Zhadyra](https://zhadyrart.tumblr.com/)

Damen blinks at him slowly, like a lazy cat. “Only that your stabbing skills leave something to be desired,” he says in the same tone, trying for a smirk but his hands are still trembling in the peripherals of Laurent’s vision.

Laurent looks up at him, hesitating suddenly, and he isn’t quite sure why. Damen’s eyes are fire in the shadow of his wings.

“I mean,” Laurent forces his eyes back down to where the point of his dagger is burning a hole in the fae’s chest. He steels himself and pushes the dagger infinitesimally forward, ignoring the shallow exhale Damen makes at the pain. “Any last words? Requests?”

“Maybe just to give me back the knife if you’re going to keep dawdling.”

Laurent can’t help but frown at that. “In a hurry to die, I see.”

“Well, you _told_ me to,” is Damen’s reply, not sounding particularly enthusiastic about the idea despite his visibly growing urgency.

Laurent has to remind himself over and over that _he wants_ _this_ , for his father and for himself. He wants this. His muscles coil in preparation to force the dagger between Damen’s ribs, knuckles white around the hilt, when the fae interrupts again.

“W-wait,” his voice breaks just slightly on the word. “After you… I want you to take the jar back home with you, when you’re done.”

“Excuse me?” Laurent’s racing mind stops as he looks up again, not willing to admit how relieved he is at the distraction. Over Damen’s shoulder, his wing lowers to reveal the doorway behind him, the one that leads into the adjoining room. Laurent can see the light filtering in from outside through the uncovered window, and on the windowsill sits a familiar, painted jar.

The cracks have been filled in with hardened sap, creating amber veins through the childlike designs. Dirt fills it about three quarters of the way, with a handful of new bluebells sprouting from the top, and Laurent knows if he were to pick up the jar he would hear them chime.

“I enchanted it a long time ago,” Damen’s voice comes distantly through a thick layer of cotton before Laurent understands them. “When we were just kids, I put some charms on it for good luck and good health, and happiness. I hoped it might help you a bit, when you went back to the human side…”

The gears that stopped in Laurent’s head shift, rearranging and turning in a different direction than before. “You enchanted my jar?” the question comes on an uncertain exhale, lips tugging downward as the statement processes.

“I- I know,” Damen hastily puts his hands up in surrender, “that I shouldn’t have, uh, done fae-things to you without you knowing. I know there’s rules and stuff humans follow to avoid fae magic, and all that, but I just-”

“Luck, health, and happiness?” Laurent interjects, and his palm hurts from how tightly he grips the knife. “That’s what you enchanted it with? Nothing else?”

Damen gives him a shaky but sincere smile, his hands lowering slowly as he speaks. “That’s all I ever want for you, Laurent.”

The anger he’s been trying desperately to cling to bleeds out of him, running from the top of his head and down through the soles of his feet, rage and dagger tumbling to the wooden floor of the cabin below. Laurent stares blankly at his own empty hands, and beyond them a divot in Damen’s smooth skin that bleeds flakes of ash.

“Why,” Laurent tries to make some sort of facial expression–he hopes it’s a disapproving frown, “would you give me a charm for those things? You could have put any curse you wanted on it and I would have never known.”

Damen shakes his head vigorously, a pinched look shadowing his features. “I would never do that, Laurent. You’re my best friend.” He stops for a moment with a sigh. “Or, well, I still think of you as my friend. I’m still your friend, if you want me to be?”

Laurent takes a step backward, tense with uncertainty. He can’t think so close to the fae and his disarming honesty, he can’t bring up his frustration again, and yet no prickle of magic brushes him.

“Please, Laurent, will you…” Damen gulps and kicks at the iron dagger with his bare foot. The skin that comes in contact with it sizzles. “You told me to, and I really have to-”

Confusion takes him until he remembers another part of that conversation from so long ago. The compulsion visibly grips Damen, in the way his fingers twitch and his wings draw closer on himself like a shell, even as he fights the urge to bend down and take the dagger himself. Laurent told him to break the name-bond between them. To die.

“Damianos, I don’t…” Laurent says, and as the words leave his mouth he can’t dismiss the truth of them anymore. “I don’t want to kill you. Don’t break the bond.”

Damen sags like a snapped elastic band, his fanned wings slowly lowering and tucking against his back once more. “Laurent, I-” he starts but Laurent cuts him off.

“I was so,” he gestures at the dagger on the floor, “ _angry_ , for two years. Since the last time I saw you.”

“I know,” Damen says, taking a hesitant step toward him, and Laurent lets him.

“You never told me you were fae, and when I found out by myself, on what was supposed to be one of the best nights of my life…” Laurent trails off when Damen’s hand lightly brushes against his. “I didn’t know what to think. It hurt so much.”

The fae frowns, soft and genuine. “I’m sorry, I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did, and it sucked.” Laurent lets Damen hold his hands in his own, and he can feel the rough scrape of Damen’s burned skin in the hand he used to hold the knife. “You were supposed to be my best friend. _More than._ We were supposed to tell each other everything.”

“How was I supposed to bring up the fact that I’m basically the boogeyman everyone always told you about?” Damen snorts lightly with a hint of amusement.

Laurent allows himself a few seconds, breathing in the familiarity of Damen, before he’s pulling his hands away and taking another step back.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says, lacking the righteous conviction he had when he’d walked into the woods this morning. “I trusted you with everything, and you lied to me.”

“I didn’t-”

“Maybe not _lied_ ,” Laurent corrects, cutting off Damen’s protest sharply. “But you deceived me anyway, and took the choice to stay or leave away from me until it was too late.”

Damen’s face goes through a complicated series of emotions until he settles on a confused frown. “I’m sorry. I never thought about your choice in all this, I just… Didn’t want to scare you away, I suppose.”

“I would’ve had the right to be scared. You could’ve been dangerous. I was just a kid.”

“I’d never hurt you,” Damen repeats, and he looks so pained at the very idea of harm befalling Laurent at his own hands that Laurent almost gives in to the urge to hug the man he’d called a friend years ago.

Laurent nods, and looks down at the abandoned dagger. “So you’ve told me,” he says, and takes a steadying breath. “You wouldn’t keep me here against my will, right?”

“What? no!”

“I could go home whenever I want?” he presses.

“Of course!”

“I could leave right now?”

“Why not?”

Laurent slides past Damen and into the room, ignoring the fae’s exclamation of surprise. He picks up the jar, _his_ jar, and lifts it to his eyes. The little stick figure drawings painted on the sides wink at him through the amber cracks in its surface. The jar itself is buzzing lightly, and quiets in his hands.

“I’m taking this with me, then,” he announces. “Health, and happiness, right? If I give it to my father, it will work for him?” He turns back in time to see Damen’s crestfallen expression. “What is it?”

Damen gestures idly with his hand and a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s just- it feels like this just happened really fast,” he complains. “And it doesn’t feel like we resolved anything at all. Do you still hate me for not telling you?”

Laurent can’t look at him in the eye, instead focusing on the swaying bluebells in his hand. “I’m mad, of course. I’m allowed to be mad, considering.” He shakes the jar a bit, and the flowers ring together softly. He swallows and looks up, meeting Damen’s copper gaze. “But I don’t think I ever really _hated_ you. You’ve always been… a good friend. It’s just going to take me a while to forgive you.”

“Will I see you again, then?” Damen asks, scratching the top of his head. His knuckles brush against the velvet of his horns, and Laurent briefly tries to remember what they felt like.

“I don’t know,” Laurent says honestly.

The fae takes a step to the side and lets Laurent past. Laurent picks up the dagger, and his jacket, before heading to the door.

“Wait,” Damen hurriedly moves in front of Laurent and puts his hand on the door, keeping it shut. “What if we made a deal? If the jar helps your dad, you’ll come back, at least to let me know if he’s okay?”

“That kinda sounds skewed in your favour,” Laurent points out. “My father is already recovering, if only slowly. The jar is just to make sure he doesn’t get worse, or gets sick again.”

“Answers, then,” Damen offers, even as his hand slides off the door. If Laurent wanted, he could open the door and leave without accepting the deal.

“How many will I get?”

Damen smirks a little. “Three is traditional,” he says.

Laurent sits at the table across from Damen, the spilled tea has since been cleaned up and rebrewed, and sits in warm cups in front of them. Damen takes a sip of tea while drumming his claws on the table's surface, waiting for Laurent’s first question.

After a minute, he thinks of something. “You said that I _am_ your court, before,” Laurent says, hands wrapped around his cup and leeching the warmth from inside it. “There’s nobody else? It’s just you and me?”

“We only ever decided that this place would be ours. We never included anyone else,” Damen says, as a way of explaining. “When you offered to build a home with me, you offered to establish this as our territory. This house and this whole area of the woods, from the edge of the human town to the end of this clearing, it all belongs to just us.”

“Which was, in essence, a proposal,” Laurent fills in the blank, lifting his cup to his mouth and taking a sip of his own. It’s the perfect temperature. “So we’re married, then.”

“Out of all the comparisons, that’s the one that stuck with you?”

“That’s how you first explained it to me,” he frowns, defensive. Damen only laughs.

“Well I certainly prefer marriage to, say, slavery,” the fae says, and Laurent’s frown deepens at the reminder. He tries to come up with another question, before he can travel too far on that train of thought.

“You mentioned something about time, before, too,” Laurent says, and the change in subject is obvious but clearly appreciated, if Damen’s nervous side glances at the iron knife resting just on top of Laurent’s jacket says anything about his short-term memory.

“I did, yeah,” Damen agrees. “I spent a lot of time, when we were younger, just learning how to control the timeflow of an area. I put off a lot of simpler lessons to really become an expert on it, for my age. I was kinda relying on your skepticism, at first, so by the time you were old enough to actually tell the real passing of time I was able to keep the timeflows in sync.”

Laurent’s brows crease in a funny way. “You’re telling me Aug- my brother was right, this whole time? I kept going missing in the woods for days, until you figured out how to, what? Control time?”

“Well, when you break it down that way-”

“What about when I was in high school? Or even in elementary school? I had deadlines and stuff, all that homework…” Laurent trails off and then gasps. “Are you the reason I missed that one weekend study group in second year? I almost failed that midterm, I’ll have you know.”

Damen looks appropriately sheepish at the accusation. “We were arguing,” he reasons. “I lost control on the timeflow for, like, a _minute_ , tops. You only missed a day and a half, if I caught it on time.”

“ _Two_ days,” Laurent says and Damen winces, taking a sip of tea to hide it. “I passed, barely, but I thought I was going nuts when I went to bed on, what I assumed was a friday, and woke up on a monday morning!”

“I tried my best, okay? I couldn’t focus on arguing and holding the timeflow at the same time, back then. I’m a lot better now–this whole area is frozen on the day after your prom, you know–and if you head back to the human town time will have barely passed.”

“But why time?”

Damen looks at him over the rim of his cup. “You always complained about getting in trouble for going missing,” he says, as if it’s simple. “I knew it was because time passes differently here, so I wanted to help you out a bit.”

“And you put off learning other, I’m assuming _basic_ skills, just so I wouldn’t complain about getting in trouble.” Laurent says it as a statement. Damen seems amused by it.

“Well, not everything. Fae puberty is about the same as human puberty, except, y’know. We grow horns and wings.” Damen shrugs. “That’s when I had to stop procrastinating on glamours.”

Something clicks in Laurent’s head. “Is that why you suddenly started showing up in normal clothes one day?”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, of course,” Laurent scoffs. “You spent all the time dressed in a toga-”

“Chiton.”

“It’d be hard not to remember the day you came in wearing a t-shirt and shorts like everybody else. It was pretty memorable, truly, I think it was the first time I’ve seen you fully clothed.”

“A chiton is already a complete outfit!” Damen gasps in mock offense, gesturing to the chiton he’s currently wearing. “Just for that, I’m counting that as your last question.”

“That’s not fair!” Laurent protests, even as Damen gets up and urges him to put on his jacket and leave. “You know that’s purely on a technicality, it was a follow-up from my previous question and absolutely does _not_ count!”

“Can’t help it, I’m a fae,” Damen says, resting his chin in his hands with a deceptively innocent look.

Disgruntled, Laurent packs up to leave for the second time today, when one last question comes to mind.

“Damen,” he begins, uncertain. He’s never asked anyone anything about her before. “I was told that… That my mother might have been taken, in the woods. Do you know if she might be…”

Damen’s playful demeanor slips as he straightens, taking the unspoken question seriously. “Do you know where, specifically? When?” he asks. Laurent shakes his head, and Damen slumps. “Then I’m afraid I can’t really help you, I’m sorry. Not all humans are like you, strong-willed or whatever. And not all fae are like me.”

“She might have encountered a bad fae, then?” Laurent tries, because it’s the first time he feels like he might be close to her, somehow.

“Or a good fae,” Damen suggests. “We don’t know. Isn’t it better to think that, maybe, she has a good ending?”

After a while, Laurent nods. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

He hooks his jacket over his arm as he heads out, the knife resting in its pocket, and he nestles the bluebell jar in the crook of his elbow. He prepares to set out with Damen hovering nearby worriedly.

“You’ll be back later, right? You’ll let me know how your dad is?” Damen frets, and it’s almost endearing, if only Laurent weren’t still annoyed at him.

“I’ll be back soon,” is what he says instead. “We made a deal, remember?”

Damen takes heart from that. “Okay. Okay. I’ll see you soon, then.”

And with that, Laurent is out the door.

The journey back seems a lot less eventful. The weather grows increasingly colder as Laurent trudges down the remnants of the bluebell path, the farther away he is from Damen’s bubble in time. He slips his jacket back on and hugs his jar in the space between the fabric and his chest to keep it warm.

By the time his feet hit the familiar sidewalk, he’s ankle-deep in snow again and shivering from the bite of the wind. On an impulse, he looks at his watch; it’s just a little past two, exactly the time when he found the first bluebell.

He hurries back home, thanking every deity he’s aware of that Auguste doesn’t lock the doors reflexively. After kicking off his boots and hooking his coat up, Laurent steals away to his room with the jar of bluebells.

They look right at home on his windowsill, where they used to be before. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow, he’ll bring the jar with him to the hospital and give it to his father.

* * *

Auguste and Papa are pleased, when he returns. Papa’s expression hold a depth of meaning, eyes swimming with questions, and Laurent can only shrug. He holds out the jar out to him, the flowers tinkling softly with the movement.

“What’s this?” Papa asks, taking the jar with amusement. “Christmas is already past, you know. It’s not time to be giving gifts anymore.”

Laurent hesitates a moment before he speaks. “A friend gave it to me. He said it’s a good luck charm.”

Papa meets his eyes and the air between them tightens like a coil.

“Auguste, do you mind getting me some water for these lovely flowers?” Papa asks, carefully watching Laurent’s face, and Auguste’s attention flick between the two of them before he mumbles something under his breath and leaves the room to search for a cup of water.

Laurent fights the urge to grab the jar back from his father. It’s his jar. It feels strange to give it away. “I couldn’t do it,” he says instead. “I tried really hard, and I was so angry, but in the end I let him go.”

“Did you, now?” Papa asks, finally looking down at the flowers. Laurent wonders if he can hear them ring, too. “I think it’s telling that your friend let you go, as well. With a gift, no less.”

“It’s nothing. He’s just being nice,” Laurent shrugs, and Papa laughs.

“The fae are not really known for being ‘nice’,” he says, and Laurent has read enough about them to know he’s right. No fae, especially one who has been wronged, has ever been told to be unconditionally _nice_.

“I guess I’m an exception, then.”

They wait in thoughtful silence until Auguste returns with a cup of water, which Papa takes from him and slowly pours into the jar. The bluebells seem to perk up and chime happily at the attention, but maybe that’s just Laurent’s fanciful thinking.

Though, from the way Papa seems to be breathing a little easier than he did a half hour ago, and a pleased, lively pink flushing out his sickly pallor, perhaps it’s not so fanciful after all.

By the time the visiting hours end and the nurses kick Laurent and Auguste to the curb, Papa is looking nearly recovered. Even the doctor who came in to check on him seemed amazed at his speedy healing.

The ride home is filled with Auguste’s easy chatter, which turns a little awkward when he asks how Laurent’s walk in the woods was yesterday. He skirts around the topic indelicately, and Laurent decides to take pity on him.

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Laurent says outright, and Auguste heaves a sigh.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, that’s fine I guess. He wasn’t, you know, angry at you? Didn’t curse you or bewitch you or anything?”

“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m fine, and he let me go.”

Auguste nods vigorously. “That’s good, then. I’m glad you’re alright,” he reaches over to the passenger’s side and pulls Laurent into a one-armed hug.

The conversation sort of tapers out after that, Laurent watching out the window as the passing street lamps stripe the dusk with their beams of light. The early sunset of winter takes with it the warm tones and leaves the landscapes cold and grey.

On the road home, the headlight of Auguste’s car catches on a smattering of something dark in the snow, just on the edge of the trees. “Stop here,” Laurent says, already opening the door as his brother stops by the sidewalk to let him out. He’s halfway out the car when Auguste catches him by the hem of his jacket sleeve.

“You’ll come back home, right?” He asks, worry darkening his features. Laurent gives him a reassuring smile.

“I’ll be back for supper,” Laurent promises, and with that he closes the car door and crunches his way through the snow, following the growing path of bluebells into the woods.


	5. CODA

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally, the epilogue!! 
> 
> please check back on WINTER also, I've updated the chapter to include the lovely art by Zhadyra!!! <3

A few years ago people began spotting a strange man who comes into town sometimes, with golden hair and silver eyes. Some say he comes to visit from the city, and some say he comes from the woods. Truthfully, Nicaise isn’t sure what to believe, especially since he’s never seen this man for himself. They all seem to agree on one thing, though, that the man is a successful book writer or something. 

Either way. It’s safer to be skeptical. 

The point is, Nicaise doesn’t care about the mysterious stranger that has the whole neighborhood gossiping. Everybody is just the same, everyone is human and uninteresting. People suck. Nicaise hates people. 

The community service at the garden and landscape store is peaceful and perfect for Nicaise: with the winter season in full swing nobody is coming in to buy stuff for their yards or anything. He’ll be done with his hours without even seeing more than ten customers over the course of the season. It’ll be the easiest few months of his life. Still, he probably could’ve done without, given the choice.

He’s watering plants in the greenhouse when the bell over the shop door jingles cheerfully, announcing a customer’s arrival. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, the boy puts his watering can down to go greet them.

“Hey, what can I do for you?” Nicaise asks as he steps up to the counter, not caring for the rudeness of his tone. He’s already here against his will, he won’t pretend to be happy about it.

The newcomer is dressed in a thick wool coat that comes down to his knees, held together with an assortment of wooden buttons, not a single one of which match. Between the colourful knitted hat and the reddish-brown scarf covering the top and bottom of his face, he looks down at Nicaise with two hauntingly pale blue eyes, almost grey in the right light. He withdraws his hands from his pockets and removes the hat and scarf, letting loose a cascade of blond hair.

“Hello,” the man says, a look of mild surprise crossing his features. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here, before.”

“If I’m lucky, you won’t see me here ever again, either.”

The corner of the man’s lips quirk. “That’s fair, I suppose. You wouldn’t happen to know where Marie-Ève keeps the balanced fertilizer for flowers, would you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Nicaise rounds the counter and heads down the fertilizer aisle, not particularly caring if the man is following him or not. He reaches the end of the aisle, where they keep the summer stuff. He points at the shelf the man is looking for. “Not sure what you’ll need it for, though. Nothing is going to grow in this weather.”

“Nothing?” The man seems amused again. He picks out one of the largest bottles and hefts it into the crook of his elbow. “Not even perennials or evergreen trees?”

“They’ll grow when the ground thaws,” Nicaise huffs, heading back toward the counter. “I can’t even get the  _ Christmas cactuses _ to flower, and they’re actually  _ supposed  _ to be blooming during this season, so it’s whatever.” 

As he’s ringing the stranger up for the fertilizer he notices the blond man is staring over him, into the greenhouse. Nicaise waves his hand sarcastically to get his attention again. 

“That’ll be fifty bucks,” Nicaise says, even though the register clearly reads forty-five. The man only shakes his head with a chuckle as Nicaise unsubtly pockets the remaining five dollars. “Do you want a bag or something?”

“No, that’s alright.” The man puts on his hat and scarf again, though he leaves his nose and mouth uncovered. “Thank you, my garden will be happy for the food.”

Nicaise scoffs. “Your garden will have to wait a few months until it’s summer to be happy about anything.”

“You know,” the man says conversationally, digging something out of his pocket. “It’s always summer somewhere else.”

Nicaise thinks about this a little. “I mean, I guess, in like Australia or something,” he says, annoyed. Why isn’t this guy leaving yet? Nicaise has important stuff to not do! “But it’s still cold  _ here _ , anyway.”

“It  _ is _ cold, here,” the man grins distractedly, finally taking a hand out of his pocket and popping a handful of small red berries into his mouth. On his way out, finally, the man turns back hesitantly to add: “My boyfriend is pretty good with plants. I think he’d suggest you put your cactus in the north side of the greenhouse. She’ll probably thank you for it.”

When the man is finally gone Nicaise takes a moment to reflect on the strange encounter. He’s never seen that guy before, and arguably speaking he  _ could _ look like the mysterious book writer people keep mentioning. But what are the odds that man would come here, to this small town’s gardening store, for nothing more than a bottle of fertilizer?

It’s not like him to get hung up on weirdo customers, so Nicaise shakes the experience out of his head. He heads back into the greenhouse and picks up the watering can again, sprinkling the orchids generously before moving on.

He spots the pots of Christmas cactuses against the far wall, all three of which are lusciously green but never flowering. 

The advice he’d been given, unsolicited mind you, returns to the forefront of his mind. The pots are on the east side of the room, to get the most sunlight Marie-Ève had said. Well, Nicaise is all for going against what he’s been told. He puts down the watering can and rearranges the greenhouse to make space for the three cactuses closer to the northern side of the room.

He wipes his hands on his pants, leaving streaks of dirt that the lady fostering him will absolutely hate when he gets back to her place, later. The bell over the door rings again, but this time it’s Marie-Ève announcing the end of Nicaise’s hours for the day. 

Nicaise is more than glad to be done, it’s his day off tomorrow after all. He picks up his backpack and jacket and is out the door before the woman even has a chance to say ‘goodbye’.

* * *

Laurent makes his way back through the woods slowly, the bottle of fertilizer is quite heavy and makes him sink into the snow with every step. When he makes tt to fall, he gladly shakes the snow from his coat and switches the bottle to his other arm.

Soon enough he passes summer, with his coat slung over his free arm, and heads just into the cusp of spring where his and Damen’s cabin sits cozily amidst an overflowing bed of bluebells and wildflowers. Laurent uncaps the bottle of fertilizer and begins sprinkling it over the flowers carefully in a slow arc around the cabin, making sure not to put too much or too little.

“Laurent, is that you?” Damen’s voice comes in through the open back window, and Laurent raises his head to peer inside. “We had a guest but she’s just leaving, if you’d like to greet her on her way out.”

Laurent knows exactly who  _ she _ is, and even though he might have felt jealousy toward her when he was younger, he would very much like to greet her before she leaves. He puts the cap back on the fertilizer so it doesn’t spill, and picks his way through the overgrown garden to the front.

“Hello, Jo,” he says, waving. The small name is a courtesy between them, an acknowledgement of the power they might have against one another but choose not to use.

The other fae smiles a little smugly as she waves back, her burnished gold curls floating around her head and framing her sharp features; Laurent knows by now that that’s just how her face looks, and she isn’t plotting his imminent demise. Her ivory ram horns curve over her pointed ears, more pronounced than Damen’s, as they perk up with attention. Like a cat.

“Hello, Lau,” Jokaste replies, and the buzz of his half-name on her tongue makes the back of his neck itch. “Been back to your hometown, I see.”

“I stopped by my father’s house after doing some grocery shopping,” he lifts the half-empty bottle for her to see. Her sharp canines dig into her lip when she smiles, acquiescing. 

“I don’t know why you don’t just let Damen grow your flowers for you,” she says. It’s been the topic of many a debate between them. “They would look much nicer with a little bit of magical assistance.”

Laurent only shrugs. “It keeps me busy between projects,” he says as a way of explaining. “How are things in your court?”

Jokaste, along with Damen’s brother Kastor, had taken over their father’s court early this past summer, after the old king had stepped down and travelled into the deep woods alone. Queenship suits her. 

“Things are quite well in ours. Much busier than yours and Damen’s, of course,” she says with a light laugh. “I had just come to discuss when the babe might come and visit her uncle, actually.”

“Oh? Still scared of meeting the big bad human?” Laurent asks, and they share a laugh.

“Not as much, these days. She’s grown up quite a bit, and isn’t as afraid as she used to be.” Jo seems pleased with her daughter’s progress. “Kas says she might have my wings when she’s older.”

Jokaste’s wings are a span of delicate silk, pure white and ribbed with transparency. The edges are bordered by soft downy fluff, interspersed with fine golden strands. An elegant pair of wings, to be certain.

“I hope she does, then,” Laurent says genuinely. 

Jo says her goodbyes and disappears into the trees, while Laurent finishes spreading the fertilizer around the garden. When he’s done he sets the empty bottle at the edge of the clearing, to take back with him when he returns to the human side. He jogs lightly back to the cabin and pushes the door open to let himself inside.

Damen is standing at the stove over a pot of hot water, the smell of fresh tea permeating every inch of the cabin. On the table are two plates set out for dinner, kept steaming hot by the prickle of magic in the air. 

“What’s this?” Laurent steps closer, bemused, as he’s draping his coat over the back of a chair. “I thought we’d agreed fridays were my night to make supper.”

Damen sweeps him up excitedly, moving much too fast for Laurent to track with his eyes, and the human finds himself carefully seated at the table with a cloth napkin over his lap. He rolls his eyes at the extravagance of the gesture.

“Will you at least tell me what this is all about?”

“I’m not allowed to prepare a feast for my king, if I want to?” Damen asks, already pouring tea into the cup beside Laurent’s plate. 

“Yes,” Laurent says. “When it’s your day to cook, not mine.”

The fae fixes him with an indecipherable gaze. “Do you really not remember?” He inquires lightly, teasingly. Laurent wracks his brain trying to think of what Damen might be asking him to remember. 

“Can you just tell me what it is?”

“It’s the anniversary of the first time we ever met!” Damen states, unable to contain himself and draping a hug over Laurent’s shoulders, wrapping his papery wings around them. He presses a kiss to Laurent’s cheek.

“What? It’s the middle of winter!” Laurent protests, gesturing in the general direction of the bluebell path and faking a valiant attempt at pushing his boyfriend off. “I’m very sure we didn’t meet in the winter, we were playing with branches and dirt and stuff!”

“It’s not winter on  _ this  _ side, though,” Damen points out smugly. “In fact, as an  _ expert _ on time, I can almost guarantee you that today is the exact same date as the first time I met you.”

Laurent gives up his theatrics and sinks into Damen’s arms. He presses their foreheads together despite the slightly awkward side-angle, feeling the bump of Damen’s horns against the top of his head, and sighs. “And this warranted a surprise dinner?” 

Damen makes a noise of assent at the incredulous question, turning his head and kissing Laurent on the nose with a bright grin.

“Alright then,” Laurent hums, catching Damen’s lips with his. “Happy anniversary, your majesty.”

* * *

Nicaise doesn’t return to the store until two days later, when he arrives for a closing shift.

It’s not his favourite shift, but the only strenuous tasks are cleaning the floor and locking up for the night. Marie-Ève counts the cash register herself, which is probably for the best because Nicaise would be gone with at least half of it at the end of every day.

The woman is cheerfully ringing up one of Nicaise’s neighbors for a Christmas cactus, who’s reddened buds are peeking open slightly. It’s surprising, given that the last time he’d seen the cactuses they weren’t even close to flowering.

“Oh, Nicaise!” Marie-Ève greets him cheerfully. “I have to thank you for the good job you did, moving the pots to a different place. It turns out the cactuses were getting too much sunlight, and they were not very happy about it.”

“Is that right?” Nicaise asks, not particularly interested. All he hears is ‘good job, good job, good job!’ 

“Mm-hm!” The woman nods. She lets Nicaise move around her to grab the mop and bucket to begin cleanup. “You should go look at them, they’re look so lovely, now!”

When Nicaise heads into the greenhouse to sweep up the dirt and dead leaves, he takes a moment to check on the cactuses. Only two are left, but they’re both half-bloomed and looking much healthier than last time.

The pink and red tones of the shy cactus blossoms illuminate the largely green and blue greenhouse in a way that the other flowers don’t. If it weren’t for the snow falling just outside the window, Nicaise thinks as he sweeps absentmindedly, the brightness of the cactus flowers would really make it look like summer. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is it babes!!!! the official end of my Big Bang :3c  
> i hope you all enjoyed this :3c it was super fun and it's the longest fic i've ever finished to date so im really excited about it!!!  
> thank you so much for coming with me on this wild, 30k+ words ride haha <3 <3 <3 <3


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